The Scion and the Scientist
by starfish.dancer
Summary: Thanks to a clause in his grandfather's will, Grant Ward is just about to lose the reins of the family company to his destructive older brother. Dr. Jemma Simmons has been working to find a cure to the rare disease that took her cousin's life, but with research funds are dwindling. A marriage of convenience may be the thing to help them both. Civilian AU, cross-posted from AO3.
1. Chapter 1

"And over here we have another biomedical lab, where a few of our bright stars of research are working on…"

Grant keeps the charming smile on his face even as he tunes out the university director and goes back to thumbing out an email to his assistant to ask her to send him a couple of reports he's been waiting on. The older, rotund man is acting as the guide to the group of donors who Grant knows are being granted this tour less as an exclusive reward to them and more in the interests of wringing more money from their pockets under the auspices of showing the representatives of the top ten donors the good their contributions have done so far. The research is worthwhile, he knows; the Ward Foundation vets its contributions with greatest scrutiny. But every researcher and every university thinks their research is more important or more ground-breaking or more worthy than other research, and Grant didn't bring his family business from the brink to the success it is today by chasing charity over profitable endeavours.

Grant glances through the observation window of the lab they'd stopped in front of as he hits send, watching as yet another set of white-clad researches in ugly blue gloves poked about with their petri dishes and microscopes, the hum of machines running their calibrations a low buzz in the background. The university director is droning on, gesturing enthusiastically, though honestly Grant doesn't see much difference from the last lab they were shown, and that was a whole other department. Grant just hopes they can move on and finish up. He'd rather hear the whole schtick at the cocktail party the university is hosting in the evening. At least there he can have a drink. He's have skipped the whole thing but had gotten word that that Director Blake had invited the press, and since he's already got a reputation for being an unfeeling bastard in the business world and beyond, his PR advisor had insisted he make an effort.

The door clicks next to them just as he's clicking open Valerie's email, which was as quick to arrive as he'd expect from his efficient employee, and the group turns as a bespectacled young man who is nearly as tall as Grant wrangles a tiny slip of a woman in a lab coat and an ugly pair of green goggles out into the hall. A student who has overstayed her welcome in the lab, Grant assumes, given the long-suffering expression on the man's face. He turns back to his email, but can't help but quickly glance back up again to take in brunette, who is very pretty despite the oversized eyewear perched over half her face.

"I just need twenty more minutes. Thirty, tops, to start another trial version," she wheedles in a lilting British accent.

"Nuh-uh," the man-handler shakes his head. "That's what you said two trials ago."

"But-"

"Dr. Simmons!" Director Blake says, a pleased tone to his voice. "How fortuitous to see you!"

The woman and young man freeze, seemingly only now recognizing that they have an audience. They turn almost comically slowly around in sync, eyes meeting and flick away before a sheepish smile finds its way onto the young man's face. She, on the other hand, looks decidedly guilty before she pushes her goggles up onto her hair and blinks at the director.

"Dr. Simmons is one of our leading biomedical researchers," Blake gestures, to Grant's surprise, woman who he'd guess is in her mid-twenties, if that. Her mouth lifts into a friendly smile. "These are ten of the universities top donors last year, come to take a special look at our facilities before tonight's little get together. One of the prides of the university, she had two PhDs before she turned twenty-three and -"

"Dr. Simmons? Dr. _Jemma_ Simmons?"

Dr. Simmons, who is blushing at the attention – she really is rather adorable with the flush colouring her face and highlighting the smatter of freckles across her nose - tilts her head in acknowledgement at Avery Kensington. Mrs. Kensington is about ten years Grant's senior who has taken over her husband's charitable endeavours in recent years as he's slowed down, likely because he has a good three decades on his fourth wife.

"Yes? I mean yes, I am she."

"Your contributions to the research into cell reprogramming in stroke victims during your doctorate has made huge strides in the medical community, and I know my husband and I have certainly benefitted! Is that what you're researching now?"

"Dr. Simmons currently has a grant to study Batten's disease, while she completes her third doctorate."

The scientist ducks her head and blushes again, but the pride in her eyes tell him the praise isn't just flattery. Grant makes a note to have the head of his Research and Development department look into whether Ward Enterprises should be making wooing her onto their staff. She's clearly extremely smart, though genius doesn't always translate to a profitable business investment, and he isn't above using his considerable resources to poach her if the returns look high enough. He knows what university researchers earn, and New York is an expensive city in which to live. It might not take too much convincing.

"Batten's disease?" One of the other group members, whose name Grant didn't bother to learn since they don't travel in the same circles, asks.

"It's extremely rare," Dr. Simmons says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"I've never heard of it," the man grumbles. "Shouldn't you be looking at cancer? Now that's a disease that needs curing!"

"There are many diseases worthy of studying," Dr. Simmons says, her brown eyes soft and earnest. "And cancer isn't one disease, but rather several, which is why research is often specialized." She sighs and bites her lip, and Grant wonders how many times she's had to have this conversation. "And let's not forget, all new advancements in science might be applied more broadly. We've only to look. Now if you'll excuse me, I must get back to-"

"Going home." The firm command has the group glancing back at the tall man who'd pushed Dr. Simmons out, his face polite but stern.

"Now, David, surely Dr. Simmons is capable of deciding when she's finished."

"Dr. Simmons," David says, before the woman herself can open her mouth, "has been working for 35 hours straight. Closer to 36, even."

"I've done longer before." Grant can barely hear mumble under his breath but he has a hard time holding back his amusement at her petulant tone.

"Since she has an important engagement with this lovely company and our esteemed director in," David pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket and checks it, "four and a half hours, she is going to go home, eat something more substantial than a granola bar, and have a nap so she's bright eyed and bushy-tailed for the mixer."

Dr. Simmons looks mutinous for a moment, like an adorably piqued hedgehog, then sighs. "Very well, Mr. Alleyne. You win."

She nods in the group's direction, and to his great surprise glares pointedly at the cell phone in his hand, though given her stature the look is less fearsome and more adorable. He tucks his phone in the inside pocket of his jacket and raises his empty hands in mock surrender, a smile on his face and his eyes locked on her the entire time. She looks poised to say something but David simply raises both brows and she proceeds to scurry away. Well, Grant thinks. At least tonight was looking slightly more interesting.

Director Blake begins his droning again, and as they pass David, who must be Dr. Simmons' student and not the other way around, Grant listens in amusement as he mutters to himself.

"Shoulda taken Lewis up on the offer to trade internships," David shakes his head as he heads back into the lab. "Had to do something in my field, I said. Didn't want to go to New Mexico, I said. Bet Dr. Foster isn't nearly as stubborn as this one."

/

Jemma grumbles to herself all the way home and through the sandwich she picked up in the university cafeteria. She doesn't stop even as she flicks the light on in the near closet that serves as her bedroom.

"He-ey," moans a voice from the bed, and Jemma's hand flies to her throat. It takes her a minute to realize that it's Daisy curled up in her blankets.

"Sorry," Daisy says sheepishly, pushing messy dark hair out of her eyes. "Bobbi thought you'd be out for the day so said I could crash here instead of the couch. She offered hers, but …"

"Lance is on nights, isn't he? And still taking up her bed four days of five even though he and Bob insist they aren't a thing anymore and she's not on nights like him anymore?" Jemma fills in the blanks wryly.

"Yeah. Want me to get out of your way? I just needed a couple of hours to sleep and it's too cold for the van right now."

"Don't be silly," Jemma waves. "But shove over. I've been ordered to get a few hours myself before tonight's nonsense."

"Oh, yeah. You have that rich people thing, don't you?"

"Yes," Jemma says sulkily. "Going to have to get trussed up like a Christmas goose just to beg for scraps to see my research through."

"Wow. You do need sleep, because that barely made sense."

Jemma strips off her slacks and blouse, undoing her bra and slipping it out from under the camisole she was wearing. She doesn't bother to put them into the wardrobe that is wedged into the small space, instead kicking them into the corner and crawling in next to Daisy when she holds the quilt up.

"So a party with rich people, huh?" Daisy scootches closer to wall as Jemma sets the alarm on her phone. "And I live in my van."

"Mostly I think you live here, these days" Jemma yawns as she wiggles into a comfortable position.

"Yeah." Something like guilt passes over Daisy's face. "But I don't pay rent or anything."

"Well, you do pitch in for groceries and for using our parking space. And it's not like you have a real bedroom."

"Half of New York doesn't have a real bedroom. The tiny window you've got in here barely qualifies it as a real bedroom."

"Yes, well." Jemma yawns again. "We all do what we can. And considering it takes four steadily-employed adults to make the rent on this place, two of whom are sharing a room with bunkbeds like pre-teen boys…"

"Mmm," Daisy nods.

"And you do pitch in more than Lance does," Jemma adds as an afterthought, and Daisy barks out a laugh.

"Make less of a mess, too," she smiles. "And hey, maybe this rich people thing will work out for you nicely. Put on a slinky dress and charm an octogenarian into marrying you so you can live in the lap of luxury until they croak, when we can all live in the lap of luxury."

"I don't have a slinky dress," Jemma says. "And I'd rather he fund my research. Or she."

"Of course you would," Daisy smiles sleepily. "Now shhh and get your beauty rest so we've got half a shot. There's only so much a push-up bra can do."

"You're ridiculous," Jemma laughs, but does as Daisy says and lets herself fall into sleep.

/

Grant straightens his jacket sleeve after looking at his watch, glad to finally be through with the evening. This sort of shindig was more up Christian's alley; a bunch of sycophantic fortune hunters, with their ingratiating smiles and tangible greed, willing to do or say anything in the hopes of currying his favour. It's exactly the type of reason he's the one who goes to this kind of thing instead of his brother.

The attention is decidedly similar to the attention he's used to getting from women, the ones who watch the eligible bachelor lists like hawks, who try to fall into his lap in the hopes of snaring a big ring and a bigger credit account, or at least a little publicity. That kind of attention is at least a little more fun, he has to admit, since he's not above playing the field a little – or a lot, to be honest. Hey, he's clear about his intentions from the get-go, and if there's been a party or two that were disappointed things didn't go the distance, well, they'd all had fun along the way.

Unlike tonight, which had been a snooze from the start, when the damned university director decided a mixer was an excellent time to give a twenty-minute self-congratulatory speech. The only bright spot had been watching the doctor from earlier in the day tout her research, all enthusiastic gestures and a stilted awkwardness on an expressive face that told he she wasn't one for artifice. It was refreshing, even though he'd found himself mostly corralled to other scientists and their projects and had only heard a little about the progress she was making when he'd drifted near a conversation she was having with Avery Kensington.

"It's a shame," the director had said when he noticed Grant looking in her direction. "Our most promising researcher, but so focussed."

"And that's a bad thing?" Grant had asked, bemused.

"It is when you're researching a disease so rare the funding is pitiful," the director had spoken frankly. "Pharmaceuticals aren't interested in cures that won't make them any money, and with a bequest about to run out, it's likely to be put aside for several years. Do you have any interest in Batten's disease, or?"

Grant had indicated he hadn't heard of it, though he was not about to give away it was the petite scientist herself who had caught his attention. He shakes himself out of his reveries as the car pulls up to his building, and waves the driver on as he makes his way past the doorman, who greets him with an apologetic grimace.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Ward, but…"

Grant sighs. "Let me guess. My mother has come to complain about her generous allowance is far too meagre again?"

"Worse, I'm afraid." Phil jerks his head toward the lobby, where Grant can just see his brother standing, looking at a piece of art as though he, and not Grant, owns the building. Grant curses under his breath and thanks the doorman for the heads up while he briefly considers calling his driver back and finding a nice family-free hotel in which to spend the night. He didn't get as far as he has by being a coward, though, so instead he strides inside.

"Christian," he says dryly. "To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?"

"Can't a man just drop by and visit his younger brother?"

"No." Grant says bluntly. "What do you want?"

"Aren't going to invite me up for a friendly drink?" Christian's smile is mocking. "Not even to congratulate me?"

"On what?" Grant says. "Did the Guinness Book of World Records finally recognize that you are – and not have, to be clear – the world's biggest dick?"

It's not Grant's sharpest insult, but it's been a long, tiring day. Christian doesn't mock him for it and his smile doesn't falter; if anything, it looks sharper. "Now, now, Grant. Is that anyway to talk to the future CEO of Ward Enterprises?"

"Like hell I'm going to hand the reins over to you," Grant spits. "I don't care who you think you've convinced to sign shares over, they'll be turning their proxy back to me-"

"Anna's expecting again," Christian cuts him off smoothly, as though he hadn't been interrupted at all. "So whatever sway you think you have to get these Ward shares under your proxy, think again. You've got some irons in the fire, I'm sure, but what are they? 15 to 18 months out, at best? Do you know what kind of policy changes about shareholders I can have made in that kind of time?"

Christian straightens his suit jacket, that unrelenting grin on his face and begins to stride out. He stops, and turns back. "You know, I really like this building. Six months from now, I think I'm very much going to enjoy that top floor view. Might make a nice gym. Or maybe I'll just leave the place empty. Knock out a few walls. Won't matter, will it, when everything's mine?"

Grant doesn't say anything as Christian exits, whistling just to piss Grant off. He's made a mistake, though, Grant thinks even as he quietly fumes. Tipped his hand early. Grant's got six months to keep even the playing field, and an idea that won't take half that much time if he plays his cards right. And Grant always, always plays his cards right.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes him a few days, but by the third night since Christian revealed his news, Grant has a few backup plans in place to minimize the damage his older brother can. Christian was right in that the irons Grant has in the fire won't come to fruition soon enough to prevent a takeover, and if the company goes to his brother it will be run into the ground, funnelled into Christian's pet projects and pockets then dismantled out of spite. Christian operates his privately-owned businesses the same way their father had run Ward Enterprises, and their father's shady investments had nearly crippled the company. He'd caused losses that should have been impossible in the market climate, all while mysterious bankruptcies and legal loopholes had seen their parents' and Christian's personal finances bolstered. Only some careful planning had kept Grant from having to conduct massive layoffs to save Ward Enterprises from folding altogether, and he can only imagine how much worse it will get if Christian takes the company from him.

Not for Grant so much as for the employees. He'd learned to prepare for the worst after Grandfather had died and has some resources hidden away. They are all untied to the family, dating back to before he'd wrested the company away from his father's equally destructive hands. Christian couldn't touch them even if he knew about them. Grant might be out of his home – and he will miss this place – but he won't be the penniless wretch he knows Christian wants to leave him.

To save more than just himself, though, he needs a new iron, as it were, and one that can be forged fast. Their great-grandfather's will, archaic as it is, is surprisingly standing the test of time and several sets of lawyers. A new member of the Ward family comes with shares that will fall under Christian's proxy as biological father of the child. They two of them have been deadlocked for years, now. The only counter-move Grant has is a dubious one, but he has a bold move to make that he's sure Christian won't see coming. And, thanks to some digging by an investigator he has on retainer – outside the family's ties and whose loyalty is firmly with Grant – he is confident that the plan has minimal risk of biting him in the ass.

It's what has him back at the university labs days after his tedious visit, making his way to the lab where the receptionist helpfully told him Dr. Simmons is finishing up some sort of volunteer work with freshmen students. She's exactly where he's told she would be, in another pristine lab coat but this time without the gloves and ugly goggles as she talks a teen through the different settings on the microscope. He takes a moment to observe her, patient with the student who looks nervous and stressed, and watches as they go through a few more slides until the student is able to do it without prompting.

"Thank you so much, Dr. Simmons," she sighs in relief. "I thought for sure I was never going to figure it out."

"Nonsense, you'd have done just fine," Dr. Simmons says. "You just needed a little confidence, and I know Dr. Whitehall can be a little intimidating to ask."

"A lot intimidating," Emily. "Which is why I have to run. I hear he locks the door the second the class starts, so I need to be there early."

"You heard correctly," the doctor says.

"Thanks again," the student calls as she runs out the door, darting around Grant. Dr. Simmons doesn't even notice him as she begins to clean things up, puttering around the lab. He knocks on the door.

"Yes, what can I help you with today?" she asks, then turns around and starts. "Oh! You're not a student."

"No, Dr. Simmons, I'm not," he says. He lets the silence stretch out a little, taking the time to watch and assess as she bounces a little on her toes. When she bites her lip and wrings her hands, nervous and unsettled, he steps forward to put her out of her misery.

"Grant Ward," he say smoothly, reaching out to extend his hand. "We weren't introduced, but I was at the donor event earlier this week."

Her hand is small and warm in his, but her grip is firm and sure, even as she's clearly flustered. "Dr. Jemma Simmons. Is me. Which you know. Yes, I do recall your being there. What can I help you with, Mr. Ward?"

"Call me Grant. Please." He gives her his most charming smile, running his thumb over her knuckles before letting her hand go. Her eyes dilate and her cheeks flush, which bodes well for his next move. "I didn't get a chance to discuss your research with you, and Mr. Blake suggested you might be looking for new funding soon. I have a bit of a proposal I'd like to discuss with you."

"Oh!" The smile that takes over her face is beautiful in its broadness, and he can't help but smile more genuinely in return. "That would be lovely. Did you mean for it to be now? I'm expected in the labs, but-"

"Actually," he says, cutting her off gently. "I was hoping you'd discuss it with me over dinner."

"Dinner?" she squeaks. It's adorable.

"Dinner," he smiles. "On Friday. How about at 7 o'clock, Dr. Simmons?"

"Seven o'clock? Yes, that should be fine. And you should… you can call me Jemma."

"Great. Jemma." She ducks her head when he says her name, tucking her hair behind her ears again. Her lovely mouth drops open a little in a moue of surprise, and he's worried a moment that the place he's chosen for its privacy and discretion will be a bit daunting, but she nods.

"Shall I pick you up, or send a car? Whatever makes you more comfortable," he amends.

"I can … I'd rather meet you there," she says.

"Here's my card," he says, pulling one out of his front pocket and putting it in her hand. "And that's my personal cell, so if you need that ride after all, or anything else, just give me a call."

"Okay." She looks at the card as though lacking anything else to do.

"I'm looking forward to it, Jemma," he says, and if the little thrill he gets is more at his use of her first name or the pretty red that rises to her cheeks, he'll have the chance to find out Friday.

/

"Oh. My. GOD," Daisy says when Jemma tells her.

"You're not serious, now, Simmons?" Fitz says as he tosses a miniature basketball across the room, where Mack catches it and lots it easily into the basket suction cupped to their wall.

"Oh. My. GOD," Daisy says again while Jemma sinks into their lumpy couch, nodding and covering her face.

"You can't possibly want to go out with some rich wanker who has been in the gossip columns for running around with underwear models more than he's made it in the business section!" Fitz's accents thickens in his disdain, and Daisy squints as she does when she's trying hard to pick the words out.

"Leave Jem be, Turbo," Mack says easily, pulling the ball back toward him with his long legs.  
He doesn't even have to leave the arm chair. "She's allowed to have fun and date rich wankers if she wants."

"It's not a date," Jemma says. "He says he wants to talk about my research and he has a proposal for me, for funding."

"YEAH, he does," Daisy says. "Dude, he's just using that as an excuse to see you."

"I should cancel," Jemma mumbles into her hands. "I have his card, I'll call him and tell him…"

"You'll do no such thing," Daisy says. Fitz squawks, but ceases when Daisy glares at him. She drops next to Jemma, taking her hands away from her face. "Look, you said yourself the other day you found him attractive. Would it hurt to go see if there's something there?"

"No," Jemma admits.

"And if he does want to talk about your research, is that a bad thing?"

"No," Jemma says. "It would be a very good thing, actually."

"So go," Daisy says as Fitz and Mack resume their living room basketball. "Have fun. Eat a dinner you wouldn't dream of affording. It's one night, and this is way better than an octogenarian. I'd be willing to give this one a ride, even if he didn't potential millions to drop on my – HEY!" she breaks off when Mack's carefully aimed throw hits her in the forehead.

"Don't be crude, Dais," Mack laughs and then juts his chin in Jemma's direction. "You'll give our girl a coronary."

"Who's going to have a coronary?" Bobbi asks, coming through the door.

"No one," Daisy says, "Now that the doctor is in. The medical doctor, that is."

"God, that was a hell of a shift," she says. "This ER rotation has been the worst. Shove over? I'm too tired to walk to the other side of the couch."

Daisy and Jemma obligingly move down, and Bobbi sinks down next to them, throwing her legs up on the coffee table even when Fitz tries to glare them down.

"At least you showered this time before coming home," Fitz grumbles.

"Had to," Bobbi says. "Blood and guts kind of day. I smelled like a mortuary."

"Ugh."

"So what's this that's got our Jem all in a kerfuffle? I know no one scooped her research, because even if I didn't hear it at work, I'd have expected a text blow up by the time I got off the subway."

"Oh, no, she just has a date… with GRANT WARD."

Bobbi gives a low whistle. "Nice. Where's he taking you?"

Jemma drops the name, and Bobbi's eyebrows lift.

"Oh God!" Jemma says suddenly, shooting straight up off the couch and knocking Bobbi's feet down as she starts to pace. "I can't go there! I've nothing to wear. Except my black dress. Which he's already seen me in. But I suppose that's fine, right?"

Bobbi and Daisy are already shaking their heads. Even Fitz looks skeptical.

"Jem, honey… no. That dress… no."

"Daisy is right," Bobbi says. "Even if he'd never seen it in his life, I wouldn't recommend you wear that dress. It's…"

"What?" Jemma says. "It's perfectly appropriate!"

"Yeah," Daisy says. "Appropriate is about the best thing you can say about that dress."

"What?" Jemma looks at Mack and Fitz as if to help.

"Don't look at me," Fitz says, hands raised in surrender. "It's a black dress."

"It's a very nice dress," Mack says, and Jemma looks placated for a moment. "My grandmother has one just like it."

Jemma meeps in indignation, and Daisy laughs.

"Actually," Bobbi says. "I think I have just the thing for you to borrow."

"I can't borrow a dress from you!" Jemma shakes her head, backing nearly into Mack. "You're practically an Amazon. It won't fit."

"Oh, it will," Bobbi says. "It's one of those bandage dresses. I've worn it clubbing back in the day, a few times. Forms to the figure. Very flattering."

"Again, you're an AMAZON," Jemma says. "Even if it 'forms to the figure', as it were, what am I going to do about it being far too long?"

"Oh," Bobbi smirks, tipping her head back and kicking her endless legs up on the coffee table again. "That won't be a problem. In fact, on you, it might actually cover a little more than just your ass."

"Clubbing days, you say?" Mack laughs.

"Drank free in that dress every time," Bobbi boasts.

"Bloody hell," Fitz shakes his head. Bobbi just winks at him. "Now that we're all home, can we quit talking about Simmons' love life and start talking about important things? Like what we're ordering for dinner?"

/

Friday night arrives quickly, and Jemma finds herself in the restaurant at a quiet table at the back, in the blue bandage dress that she has to admit is more becoming on her than her go-to little black dress. Daisy had done her hair for her, twisted it into a loose but elegant twist, with little tendrils left loose and curling. The neckline is a little more plunging than she normally wears, and she has to wonder that Bobbi got away with wearing it in public. Given their differences in shape, she suspects the pale blue number would have been bordering on indecent on the blonde.

Dinner had been lovely, though she'd been nervous at first. Grant looked extremely handsome in a navy suit that, by coincidence had complemented her dress well. He'd had manners that would make her mum swoon, standing to greet her and pulling out her chair for her. He'd made suggestions from the menu but hadn't tried to order for her, which she appreciated. She'd had a boyfriend that constantly spoke to wait staff on her behalf, and even on the rare chance he asked for what she wanted, she hadn't been pleased. That relationship hadn't lasted long.

The conversation had been a bit awkward a bit, as on any first date, but Jemma has to admit that was mostly due to her own social failings and nervousness. Grant is very gracious though, and smoothly steered the conversation, touching on things from places they'd traveled to stories about their school experience. She'd been surprised to learn he'd spent much time away at boarding schools, including military school in his teens; he'd been more surprised, she thinks, to learn that she skipped boarding or even public school entirely but had still managed to go to graduate and head to uni by seventeen when she'd finally been allowed to take extra credit and an accelerated workload.

True academia had been where she'd finally found her stride and flourished, she'd admitted. That had segued into talking about their work, though he'd deftly navigated that topic, mostly, to her research, asking intelligent questions and looking at her with an intense focus she found incredible. She understood why he was so popular in the gossip pages Daisy had been sure to show her online. Having that focus on her alone was a heady experience, and even if it didn't come to anything more than this single night, even if her research never saw a penny of Ward funding, she wouldn't regret it.

But, it would seem, he did have an interest in both funding her research and more than a single night, because over dessert he raised funding her research again, indicating he had a bit of an unconventional but mutually-beneficially agreement he wanted to run passed her, pulling out a thick folder of paperwork.

She's opened the file, scanning quickly through the proposal to fund the university at the same level as the previous two years but have the funds dedicated to her research, when her brain catches up to herself and she chokes on the very lovely champagne he'd ordered. He slides his chair closer to hand her a napkin as she coughed.

"Okay?" he asked.

She nods, then shakes her head. "I think I'm going mad, because I do believe this paperwork suggests that you will fund my research _if I marry you."_

"It wouldn't be a real marriage. I just need to buy myself some time," Grant says, his voice a low plea that seems to wind itself around her heart against her will. "If I can't secure more shares, my brother will pick Ward Enterprises apart, piece by piece, and I can't let that happen. I need a wife, Jemma, at least temporarily, and you need a steady flow of funding. So I'd like very much for you to consider marrying me."


	3. Chapter 3

"You're not serious," Jemma says, blinking up at her dinner companion. At his stoic face, she falters instead of continuing on, as she'd be wont to do otherwise.

He pointedly glances down at the very official-looking paperwork he'd passed her. "Let's say I was, but in hypothetical situation. No consequences. No pressure. Tell me what you're thinking."

Jemma tugs at the hem of her borrowed dress then drops her hands nervously into her lap. When he'd mentioned funding for her research with his dinner invitation, she can't say she'd imagined this kind of proposal.

For lack of anything to say, she leafs through the pages of the agreement, scanning and thankful for her reading speed as she goes. "So … hypothetically … you'd fund our research for two years," she says slowly, "if I marry you for that length of time."

"Yes," he says. "You'll understand that I won't discuss the specific details beyond … hypothetically … unless we've come to an agreement. Suffice it to say that, for business reasons, I need a wife. For the sake of my company and my employees more than my own, but nevertheless, I need to appear to be legitimately married within the next few months."

"I'm not a prostitute," Jemma blurts out, glad for the semi-privacy of their restaurant seating when it comes out a little louder than she'd anticipated. "My research is important, but… I'm not… I won't…"

"And I don't pay for sex," Grant says with a sharp grin that reminds her just how attractive the man is, not that she needed much of refresher. She blushes and looks down at her hands, which she's been wringing in her lap unnoticed. Or so she thinks until he slides his seat even closer to her to still them, skin warm against her own.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm not asking you to sleep with me for funding. I need a wife _on paper_ to buy enough time to keep the company safe. I have some other irons in the fire, but they are at least a year out, and it turns out I don't have that kind of time."

"So you just need a wife in name only?" Jemma asks, biting her lips.

Grant grimaces. "Well… sort of. It has to _look_ real, at least. My brother's lawyers are going to fight this one, and I can't give them any ammunition. We'll need to make it look genuine, which means we'll need to be seen together on dates. Play the gossip columns a little. I need it to look like we're swept up in this, enough to elope after a short time of whirlwind dating. There's space enough in my home that we won't be falling all over each other privately, but in public…"

"I'm not a good liar," Jemma shakes her head. "Terrible, actually. I don't know that I _could_ make it look real."

"Don't worry," Grant flashes her a grin. For some reason her heart stutters in her chest. "I can. We can. It's all about the details. As a researcher, you know how important the details are, Jemma."

His eyes are locked on hers and she can't look away. Doesn't want to look away. The slow, low timbre of his voice is having a near hypnotic effect on her.

"My fingers, stroking your hand," he continues in that same entrancing tone. "Stroking over your wrist."

As his digits dance over the soft skin, her breath catches in her throat. She wonders if he can feel her pulse fluttering under his fingertips, because her heart is beginning to speed its rhythm in her chest. But then his hand is leaving to capture a stray wisp of her hair.

"It's about the way I tuck the hair behind your ear, grazing your cheek, lingering around your chin," he says as she finds her chin lifting toward him unconsciously. "Leaning in, pausing a breath away…"

His eyes flick to her lips as his hand comes to cup her jaw. She nods minutely as her eyes flutter shut as he closes the distance between them.

/

Grant Ward is a very, very good kisser. The kiss relatively chaste – they are in a restaurant, after all, and one she doubts would appreciate anything even remotely resembling lewd – but it certainly doesn't make it any less of a pleasure when his lips move against hers, pulling back only a hair's distance before chasing her mouth again. When they break apart, moments or hours later, she can't seem to tell, it takes her a moment to gather herself enough to blink her eyes open.

He's smiling at her softly, and he reaches to brush his knuckles across her cheek before playing with one of the loose tendrils of her hair.

"See?" he says, his voice a low timbre, not quite a whisper. "It just has to look like we got caught up, a maelstrom of attraction leading to an impulsive wedding. And I think we can manage that, can't we?"

His eyes are locked on hers and she feels a frisson of _something_ run up her spine. Attraction, certainly. Interest. Like a magnet, pulled toward the pole and wanting to lock in. She finds herself nodding, even as she has to remind herself to compartmentalize. He's playing a role. Whatever else her traitorous libido wants to think, he only means for it to seem as though they're caught up.

He moves back to sit in his chair proper again, picking up his fork to take a bite of his dessert. She'd tasted the chocolate on his tongue, she can't help but think wildly. He spears another bit onto the fork, then holds it out to her. "Want?"

He's only asking about the cocoa concoction, she knows, but it's all swirling together with the offer he'd laid out on the table, the feel of his skin against hers, the good she could do if she agrees to this ruse. Her stomach churns.

She means to tell him she doesn't know, not sure if she means the dessert or his suggestion, but when she opens her mouth he slips the fork past her lips. It must look romantic to outsiders, she thinks. He can so easily set the stage and she can see how easy he'd make it to act the part of woman falling for him. He'd kept her interest, kept up with her, and she knows that's not an easy feat. He's a different kind of smart than she is, but he is definitely intelligent, a strategic mind that must manoeuvre well in the business world.

It's outrageous, she knows, to even consider doing it. To live a lie for two years. She slowly chews the bite of brownie, because she is considering it. Two years of funding would mean a great deal. She's been burning the candle at both ends for so long, trying to get as much done as she can as the grants to trickle to halt, and she's been living with the looming threat of having to give up for longer than that.

It wouldn't be as though she'd be doing it for selfish reasons. In fact, it seems selfish to turn her nose up at it. The amount he's proposing, even spread over two years, would likely mean getting to the point of clinical trials on the therapeutic protocol she's working on to alleviate some of the more painful symptoms of Batten's. She might even make inroads to a cure. Can she really weigh the small sacrifices she'd make in a fake marriage against that?

"It wouldn't be a fake marriage," Grant says, startling her out of the thoughts she realises she must have, in part at least, spoken aloud.

"Pardon me?"

"Think of it more as a marriage of convenience. It would be a real marriage, even if in name only. Our reasons are no one's business but ours."

"People have gotten married for worse reasons, I suppose."

"They have. My parents, for example. An example which you'll have the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing in person, as there will be some functions both before and during the marriage that we'll need to attend as husband and wife. Though I'll try to spare the both of us from as many family obligations as I can."

"I… I need to think about this," Jemma says.

"Of course." Grant takes her hand in his, squeezes it gently. "You'll need time to consider it. Make sure the terms are agreeable to you. But even if you aren't ready to say yes to a proposal just yet, would you at least agree to another date?"

"Another date?"

"Yes."

She has a sneaking suspicion he's laughing at her a little, but really it is his fault she's completely flummoxed. "Even if I intend to say no to the whole wedding thing?"

"Even if," Grant grins at her. "You were having fun, right? Before the whole?" He waves his hand as though that covers the whole sort of proposal, and she supposes it does.

Jemma nods.

"So let me take you out again, while you think about it."

"So it looks real, if I decide yes," Jemma says slowly.

"It can't hurt," Grant says lightly. "At the very least, you'll get a fun evening out of it."

"Okay," Jemma says slowly. "But… Could we maybe… um…"

"Go ahead, sweetheart," Grant urges. She names what she needs, and is rewarded with his delighted laugh.

/

"I can't believe you told him you need the next date to be somewhere where you _didn't have to borrow a dress,"_ Daisy snickers while Mack just looks appalled. Jemma is just glad that Fitz is working late, because she really does not need the lecture.

"Well I certainly can't go to another fancy restaurant in the trousers I wear to work, can I?" Jemma tips her chin up in defense.

"Well, no," says Daisy. "But seriously. Fitz is going to have a field day with this one."

"Oh, please don't tell Fitz," Jemma pleads.

"You know she's going to now," Mack says. "And really, Jem, did you really just come out and blurt it like that?"

Daisy starts giggling all over again. "Oh, God, Mack, can you imagine it?" Her voice shifts up an octave and into an accent that Jemma supposes is supposed to be an approximation of hers. "Oi, Ward, I need to wear me regular pants, don' ay?"

"I don't sound like that!"

"No one sounds like that," Mack says. "And I'm pretty sure 'pants' means something altogether in Britain."

"Oh I know," Daisy grins. "But I guess maybe it is too early for Jem-Jam to be talking to Ward about her knickers."

"You two are terrible. Very bad friends, would not recommend," Jemma grumbles.

"You love us," Daisy waves off. "But in all seriousness, you're seeing him again on Monday?"

"Yes," Jemma nods.

"She must like this one, Daisy. She's giving up the opportunity to work late at the lab then run home for Bad Movie Night."

Daisy eyes her critically, and Jemma worries at her lip, afraid she'll give away the whole proposition in her expression. "You do like this one, don't you?"

Jemma nods jerkily.

"But?"

"But what?"

"Your hesitating. Don't tell me you're starting to buy into Fitz's "he could be a serial killer" paranoia?"

"Well, no," Jemma rolls her eyes. Fitz really does have the most outlandish ideas. "But… but what do I really know about him anyway?"

Now it's Daisy's turn to roll her eyes. "That's why you do the dating thing, dummy. To get to know him. Wait… do you have a bad feeling about him or something?"

"Well, no. But when has that ever been a reliable way of knowing about someone?"

"Gut feelings are important," Daisy says. "There's lots of people-"

"She means _her_ gut feelings," Mack interrupts. "And honestly, she doesn't have the best track record."

Jemma shakes her head miserably. "Like William. Who it took me ages to figure out was married and I was the other woman."

"Or Kelly," Mack says. Jemma grimaces. The less said about Kelly the better.

"Okay," Daisy says. "That kind of thing I can actually help with."

She leans down off the couch to pat underneath it until she's sliding her battered laptop out from where she'd tucked it under the couch. It may look like it has seen better days, but it boots up quickly and Jemma has no doubt that it is much more reliable than it appears. Then Daisy's fingers are flying over the keyboard and she's pulling up some interface onto the screen.

"Um, Daisy," Mack says cautiously. "Do we need to have the talk again?"

"Oh relax, Big Man," Daisy smirks. "Like I'd do anything illegal on your very traceable Wi-Fi. This is totally legit. I've kind of been doing this... thing… lately. For a private investigator. See? I even have an account."

"What thing?" Jemma asks, curious.

"I dunno, like background checking mostly. Some surveillance, here and there. That kind of thing."

"Are you saying you've found a job, D?" Mack says slowly. "Like actual paycheck and taxes, Jemma can do something else with the bail money, job?"

"Maybe," Daisy shrugs. "It's early days. The computer thing is kind of my wheelhouse and May – the investigator I'm working with – tends to look the other way if I use my outside sources to find things. Unlike you squares."

Her face has turned teasing, and she turns the screen to Jemma. "But this is May's database and, at least as far as I can tell, no immediate red flags. No arrests on records, no marriage licenses – not even filed. Financials, obviously, in a good state, and it looks like your Grant Ward has been good about filing his taxes. I mean, I can do a bit more digging but, from what I can tell, on paper at least he seems decent enough, and the rest you might just have to figure out the old-fashioned way."

"Thank you," Jemma says, for lack of anything better to say, and if she continues to worry on her lip she hopes that Daisy and Mack will incorrectly extrapolate that she's just a bit gun-shy on a relationship. Though she certainly can't imagine they'd figure out from looking at her that she's considering a not-a-fake-marriage to Grant Ward. "Can I transfer you the fee?"

"Fee?" Daisy says blankly.

"For your services," Jemma says. "There must be a basic rate."

"Dude," Daisy waves her off. "I'm totally Veronica Mars here."

"I… don't know what that means."

"I do favours for friends?"

Both Jemma and Mack just blink at her.

"Veronica Mars? Show that didn't get nearly as much love as it deserved? Used to run on the CW? Okay, you two are hopeless. Okay, taking the pop culture out of it, you don't owe me a thing, Jem-jam. Even if you didn't let me crash on your couch and use your Wi-Fi."

"But I feel badly, when it's your actual job, and…"

"Nope," Daisy says. "And don't try to push. We both know that I can out-stubborn you on this one."

Mack nods. "She's got you there. Come on, Doc. Let D do her thing and don't waste your breath or your energy. You're going to need it when she inevitably blabs to Fitz about your borrowed wardrobe comment."

"She wouldn't!"

"Yeah! I wouldn't," Daisy sticks out her tongue. "Except maybe I group texted everyone like three seconds after you told us."

Jemma's mouth drops.

"Sorry?" Daisy grins sheepishly then ducks as Jemma swings a couch cushion at her. "Sorry! Sorry! It was too funny not to share?"

The room fills with her giggles as she tries ineffectively to block Jemma's indignant and wild pillow swinging as Mack's baritone laughter fills the living room.


	4. Chapter 4

Grant rubs at his forehead as he scrawls one last note on the last of the file folder of briefing notes and proposal he had to finish going over today and drops it on the pile in his outbox. It's the second stack Margaret will have to clear out, log, and distribute today. He worked through the weekend to make sure his evening stayed clear, and her day had started with a small mountain of paperwork. He glances at his wristwatch, noting that it is nearly two o'clock. He's about to press the intercom on his phone to ask her to have something sent in for lunch when it rings on his end, his assistant's extension flashing across the call display.

"Yes, Margaret?"

"Mr. Ward?" she hesitates, clearly choosing her words care. "There's no meeting scheduled, but Ms. Romanoff is here to see you."

"That's fine. Send her in." Grant says. Margaret's extremely efficient and a force to be reckoned with, but so is Natasha Romanoff. As amusing as it would be to find out which of them would come out on top in a standoff, they are valuable resources to him, and he isn't so stupid as to lose either over an imprudent urge to ruffle feathers.

The redhead strides into his office like she, and not he, belongs there. "Ward," she nods with a slight curl to the lips painted as vivid red as her hair, her tone respectful but cool.

"Romanoff," he says in an equally even tone.

"I have the second workup you requested on Dr. Simmons," she says, sliding into the chair opposite his desk and pulling a flash drive from somewhere he doesn't see with the careless elegance she always seems to exude.

"Already?" he can't help but ask. He doesn't doubt her thoroughness – he knows better than that – but he'd expected her to need more time to suss out any risks Grant needs to know about if he's going to go through with her plan.

She lifts her shoulders slightly in a shrug. "There wasn't much of note, at least risk-wise anyway. Dr. Simmons is impressive, I'll admit, with two PhDs under her belt by twenty-seven and a third one in the works. Most of what I've dug up is academic. It's in the first folder for you to wade through, if you're feeling ambitious."

"Anything out of the ordinary I should be concerned about?"

"There's no red flags, if that's what you mean. Unless you want to count exactly one parking ticket. Which she paid promptly. Her financials are in good shape, too. Scholarships for the most part took care of student debt. Taxes filed before the deadline every year. She donates to several charities, mostly focussed on children, regularly. Even her associates are fairly above board."

"Fairly?"

"For the most part. There are three other people that share the lease to the three bedroom she's lived in the last two years. One roommate – Barbara Morse, goes by Bobbi – has a significant amount of student debt, but given she's just into her residency after med school, not a surprise. The mechanic and the engineer, Alphonso Mackenzie and Leopold Fitz, have some debt as well, but not in concerning amounts. They get standard pay for their field and from what I saw are loyal to their employers, since both have turned down head-hunters in the last few years."

Grant nods as Romanoff lists her findings.

"Colleagues and acquaintances and whatnot, they all seem standard. Except there is one friend," Romanoff leans back in her chair, perfectly at ease even though it is one Grant chose specifically to intimidate visitors with its discomfort. "Daisy Johnson. No fixed address, and her files are clean – too clean. A van registered under that name parks in the space allotted to Simmons and her roommates, and there was some bouncing around that was unusual when it came to tracking down what should have been very basic information. I'd say it'd be worth keeping an eye on if you had a hope of recruiting Simmons, but honestly? You really don't."

"Wait, what? Recruiting Jemma?"

"Look, the woman is practically a saint, and I don't think there's any amount of money you can throw at her to lure her to working for you."

"A saint? She seems very sweet, but that's laying it on thick, don't you think?"

"No, I'm serious," Romanoff says, leaning forward to point to a folder one the screen, one she's marked with an asterisk. "See this? Several pharmacology companies have been trying to recruit her ever since she finished her first doctorate, and she's turned them all down, including at least one offer that would have seen her salary tripled. She doesn't care about money, she cares about curing some diseases, Baxter's or whatever-"

"Batten's," Grant corrects.

"Right," Romanoff waves a hand dismissively, but somehow he gets the feeling she knew and was testing him, though he can't possibly guess what would motivate her to do as much.

"She's made some research strides in pain management, it would seem," Romanoff carries on, "and though would have made her quite the profit if she'd let it go to a bidding war, her patents have all gone directly to companies with a reputation for making treatments available at affordable prices. And did you know she corresponds with kids diagnosed with Batten's? Don't ask how I dug that up."

Grant raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. So she's a saint."

"Veritable saint. You'd have more hope of convincing your older brother to work for you than Jemma Simmons."

"Then it's a good thing neither of those is my intention," Grant says.

"Well unless you think you can get her to date you, I can't think of any other reason you'd want such an in-depth background check."

Grant lets the silence stretch out, face as expressionless as carved stone. Romanoff finally barks a husky laugh.

"Really? Well that's you playing against type, isn't it?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That she's not your usual type," Romanoff says, her tone suggesting she thinks he's an idiot. "You favour tall blondes who like seeing their picture in the society pages but have aged off of the Leonardo DiCaprio dating wait list. This one is quite probably an actual genius."

"Tall and blonde doesn't mean stupid," Grant points out.

"Never though so," Romanoff doesn't miss a beat. "Just there's a difference between smart and bonafide genius. But fine. You want to date the good doctor. I wish you all the luck with that."

Romanoff's face is schooled into the perfect neutral expression, but Grant has a feeling she doesn't think highly of his chances. Which is ridiculous. He's a good-looking multi-millionaire. He's the very definition of eligible bachelor. Has she not seen his abs? He knows his beach pictures have showed up in the society pages at least twice.

"Well, thanks so much for that," Grant grouses. "Just so you know, she's already agreed to a date with me. A second one at that. Tonight."

"A Monday night date? Let me guess, a restaurant so fancy even YOU couldn't get in on the weekend."

"Nope," Grant's lips lift in a secretive grin. "I've got something much more impressive than that planned."

/

Jemma is nervous. She fidgets with hem of her Mackintosh, tugging at it with her mittened hand while she waits for Grant to show their tickets to the gatekeeper. She's been a bit concerned that he hadn't listened to her about going somewhere with a more casual dress code when he'd pulled up in the limo, but when he'd stepped out to greet her, he too had been wearing jeans.

Of course, she'd bet his are a darned sight more expensive than the pair she'd picked up at Winner's a few years ago. They certainly fit him well enough she could believe they'd been made specifically with him in mind, though that likely wasn't a thing. Was it a thing? She'd have to make a note to ask Daisy. Preferably when the rest of her housemates were out, as she'd never hear the end of it otherwise, whether it was over her lack of fashion knowledge or the way she just knew she'd blush thinking about how the denim hugged his thighs.

She still hasn't decided what she's going to do about the whole marrying thing.

She should really make up her mind to tell him one way or the other, she knows. He deserves to move along to someone else if she's going to say "no", so he can find someone else with whom to make the whole sham work. If he needs to be married within a few months, there can't be an unlimited amount of time before the offer expires and he needs to seek out a new candidate, so she should tell him thank you but no thank you.

And yet.

He hasn't said a word beyond letting her know there was no pressure tonight, they were just an ordinary pair heading out on a second date. To a football match, as it were.

"I have season tickets," he'd explained on the way over. "I don't often make time to go, sometimes only when Thomas – my youngest brother – comes to town."

"So the seats just sit empty? When you don't go?" she asked, trying very hard to keep judgment from her tone. It seemed like such a waste.

He'd lifted a shoulder elegantly, a half smile on his face. "There's a draw amongst my staff, when I'm not using the tickets. The seats get filled. And I don't have to worry about getting good seats when I'm in the mood to see my team play."

She isn't sure if she should feel badly that someone who is a bigger fan is out a chance to see their team play tonight, but then again, the free tickets were never a guarantee, so…

"Ready?"

He startles her out of her thoughts, reaching out a hand. She plops her mitten into his palm and lets him lead her to where they will be sitting. He's not wearing his gloves, she notes, and she can feel the warmth of his fingers bleeding through the soft cotton around hers.

"Have you ever been to a football game before?"

"Oh yes," she says automatically. "I used to take in a match now and again when I was in uni… Oh wait. You mean an American football match?"

"Game," he corrects with a smile.

"Right," she nods. "And no, I can't say that I have."

They fall into silence again. They let go when they climb the stairs to their seats, and she worries a moment about being swept away in the crowd – there are beginning to be a lot of people in the stadium – when she feels his hand move to the small of her back. His body angles a bit in front of her, keeping her from being jostled, and she can't help but beam up at him as he points to their seats.

"I don't have boxed seats," he explains. "The view is just as good here, and you don't miss out on the crowd experience. The energy when your team gets a down, or holding your breath to see if the kicker makes the field goal…"

"I can't say I actually know very much about American football," she admits as they settle in. "Or anything at all for that matter."

"After how many years Stateside?" he teases.

"Well, I didn't think real football needed any improvement on, so…" she jokes.

"Careful, sweetheart, or one of these fans will sack you."

She blushes at the endearment, then blinks in confusion. "What on earth does football have to do with losing my job?"

He lets out a surprised laugh. "What? Oh, sacking. It's a type of tackle."

"Oh," she says. "Oh! You were making a football joke."

"Badly, it seems."

"Not your fault," she says, patting his arm. "I really don't know much about the game. I hope that doesn't ruin your experience. I know you said you don't often get to go, and I don't want you to have a bad time."

"Not possible," he smiles at her, brown eyes crinkling a little at the corners. She is reminded yet again that he is a very attractive man. "I don't mind explaining anything you need as we go."

"Really?"

"Sure," Grant says. "You'll be an expert in no time."

/

She isn't an expert by any means, but she's definitely understanding more of the game by the time halftime rolls around. Grant has been good natured, too, never losing patience when she asks after a rule again or when she cheers for the wrong thing, even during the brief time his team was down several points. He'd also bought them beer and hotdogs, which he said was part of the experience.

She only wishes she'd thought to dress more warmly.

She'd thawed a little when she'd used the restroom – and wasn't that a long line in the ladies' room – but sitting relatively stilly in the open-air seats has convinced Jemma it is past time she switched to her winter coat. Even though she'd grown up in the wet cold of England, freezing is freezing, and there's only so much her thinly-lined Mackintosh can do. Still, there isn't much she's able to do at the moment besides make another trip inside to the loo to get warm.

She makes her way back to their seats, glad she had at least thought to wear a hat and mittens and that the venue wasn't subject to the wind. She's surprised to find that Grant hasn't returned from the washrooms, yet, but she supposes there are likely more men at the game and perhaps even more demand in the toilets.

It's a few minutes, nearly enough to make her concerned she'd missed some signal and has been left behind, when she sees him making his way back to the seats, a bag over his arms and a tray of food. She is ridiculously happy to see the faint curl of heat coming off what looks to be thick-cut French fries, even if it will mean taking her mittens off to get that goodness in her stomach.

"You looked cold," Grant says as he steps past their seat-mates, setting the bag in the chair as he hands her the tray to hold. "Now I know you aren't a fan – yet – and it's definitely too big, but I thought this would be toastier."

She could absolutely kiss him, she thinks as she sees him pull out a pullover from the bag, along with a scarf in Giants home colours. He trades them to her for the tray, and she pulls the thick cotton over her jacket, wrapping the scarf around her neck. He hands her one of the cups from the tray as she settles back into her seat.

"Hot chocolate," he says. "I wasn't sure if you drank coffee this late, or at all, so…"

"No, it's perfect, Grant," she says. "Thank you. Really. I should have dressed more appropriately. You did say we'd spend some time outside."

"Well, the temperature dropped suddenly, you'd probably have been fine a few days ago."

"Well, still. Thank you. I'm much warmer."

She's still a little cold, and she doesn't know how on earth he's able to read that, because he's soon wrapping an arm around her and tucking her nicely into his side.

"This okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," she says, looking up at him through her lashes in a wave of shyness, hoping that the word doesn't sound nearly as breathless to his ears at it just did to hers. She almost wishes she weren't quite so attracted to him; she has a feeling she'd find herself much less mortified.

He just smiles down at her, eyes crinkling slightly at the corner as they lock on hers. For a moment, she feels something like the push and pull of two magnetic poles, some crackling force between them as his eyes dart to her lips as she unconsciously wets them.

"Dude, we're on the Jumbotron! Woo! GO GIANTS!"

The shouts from the seats above theirs, combined with popcorn raining into her hair and lap from above, breaks the spell. She ducks her head and brushes kernels out of the strands before glancing up to see that sure enough, she and Grant are in the bottom corner of the screen, though the focus is on the cheering fans with painted faces and – is that man really lifting his shirt to show a decorated belly? She shakes her head with a smile and settles back to watch the rest of the game.

/

"Jemma. Jemma, we're at your place."

Gentle hands jostle her shoulder, and she jolts awake, knocking her purse to the floor of the limousine, the contents spilling out across the immaculate carpet. She feels the heat rising to her cheeks as she stammers out an apology.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't realise I'd fallen… I didn't mean-"

"Hey, it's okay," Grant says, and she's sure he's hiding an amused smile from her. "You mentioned you'd been pulling long days at the lab, I figured you could use the sleep."

"I'm so embarrassed," she says a little miserably. He'd had to take a phone call, and she'd meant to just close her eyes a moment, but the low talking and the motion of the car must have lulled her into slumber. She's only grateful she had remained seated. If she'd drooled on him, she'd be mortified.

"Don't be," Grant says, as he starts to help her gather her scattered things. "It gave me a chance to check my email without looking obnoxious."

"You did last through the football match. Game," she corrects automatically.

"Game," he confirms. The almost elusive smile is back.

"It turned out to be rather exciting. I liked it when they hit each other," Jemma says. "Very smashing to watch. Quite literally." She bites her lip then, hard, to remind herself to stop rambling like some silly girl with a crush instead of the very competent and accomplished biomedical researcher she happens to be.

"Anyway," she finishes lamely. "I had a very nice time."

"Speaking of time," he says, holding out a tube of lip gloss, a crumbled receipt, and her cell phone while she tries to stuff a roll of glow-in-the-dark condoms – surely Daisy's work since she knows for a fact she didn't purchase them - into a purse pocket before her humiliation is complete. "Have you had enough to give my proposition any thought?"

She takes her things from his hands, looking down at them rather than making eye contact. This is it, Jemma thinks. This is where, as lovely as it has been spending time with him, the whole plot has to come to an end.

She opens her mouth to say as much when her screen lights up with an email notification.

 _Katie Morris_ flashes at the top, and her heart squeezes in her chest as she thinks of Katie. Nearly thirteen years old, she's one of the Batten's patients Jemma corresponds with. She thinks of Katie and Jesse and Adella, living in pain and on limited hope. Of Douglas and Tina whose funerals she'd attended only last year. Of the others whose names she doesn't even know, of their families. Of the numbers she might help in future for what, a mere two years of her life? And it isn't as though Grant has shown himself to be some kind of monster whose company she couldn't endure.

Slowly but resolutely, she nods.

"Yes," she says. "I've thought about it. And yes. I accept your proposal."


	5. Chapter 5

She's going to tell him no.

Grant wouldn't have made it as far in his business as he has if he hadn't made a point of learning to read people, and every line in her body has him bracing for the gentle rejection she's steeling herself to give as she gathers her spilled things. He feels a surge of disappointment. He'll be hard pressed to find as safe a candidate for wife as Jemma. There's no guile to her, no fortune seeking, no ulterior motivations he'd have to guard against even while he went against Christian's own machinations. And he also genuinely likes her. The attraction between them was sure to help with the sell as well.

He genuinely regrets not being to explore their chemistry further. If he didn't have Christian's heir turning whatever next relationship into a business arrangement, he might have had a chance to wonder whether she'd blush as prettily as she is now, all flustered and sleepy-eyed, if he leaned in a whispered that he wanted to take her home, into his bed, or whether she'd surprise him again with her sharp wit and clever tongue. Instead, he moves to help her collect her spilled sundries so she can let him down easy.

Until her whole demeanor changes. He doesn't know what she sees as she glances down to her hands, fisted in her lap for strength, but in a split second her whole posture shifts infinitesimally and he knows the affirmative is going to slip through her lips before she even can draw a breath.

"Yes," he hears her say through a rush of triumph that roars through his ears. "I accept your proposal."

Though the relief is nearly too much for him, he's too practiced at refraining from acting on impulse to let his victory show. Instead, he waits for her to look up from her clasped hands to catch her eye.

"You won't regret this," he says sincerely, handing her the blister pack of birth control and a small canister of what appears to be pepper spray he'd gathered from the seat.

She looks like she already might, as white teeth press into her lip, but she only nods jerkily, then looks down at their joined hands.

"How," she says, then stutters to a stop. She clears her throat, then tries again. "How are we going to go about this? Do I just… go back upstairs and say we're getting married, or… Because I don't think they'd buy that, and… How do we?"

She stops again, clearly not sure where to go with this.

"No," he says decisively. "No, that's not how it needs to be done, to look right."

"Then how does it need to be done?"

She's gnawing at her lip again. He sets her hands back in her lap and gently cups her cheek, brushing his thumb against the lip she's abusing.

"Careful, or you'll draw blood."

Her mouth opens into a moue of surprise. If his thumb lingers a millisecond longer than necessary, it's impossible to tell before he's returning his hands to his own lap. She blinks at him, wide-eyed. He's struck, for a moment, at how beautiful she looks, her face cast gently in moonlight.

He shakes his head slightly, reminding himself that he doesn't have time for silly nonsense, no matter how kissable her mouth looks.

"We need to sit down, go over the paperwork. I've had my lawyer draft the proposed details for our marriage, but of course you'll want to negotiate your own terms."

"Yes!" she says, a little loudly, before continuing more softly. "Yes. I will want to … negotiate the terms. Of our marriage."

He smiles at her, but instead of putting her it ease, it seems to fluster her.

She hesitates. "Do we look at it now?"

"Why don't you come to my place tomorrow?"

"Your place? Tomorrow?"

Her uncertainty is ridiculously charming.

"It's private, so we can hash things out. We can have dinner. Plus, it would help to sell the story, if you were to come over and stay a while. Third date, after all."

"Third date? What does that have to do with… oh!" She says as it dawns on her. "My friends will assume…. Yes, that makes sense."

"So… dinner tomorrow?"

"Yes?" she says, then nods determinedly. "Yes. We'll have dinner. And negotiate."

"Good," he says. He lowers the shade and catches the eye of his driver, who gets out to walk around and opens the door. Jemma steps out, and Grant slides after her.

She turns toward him, and he can see the question in her eyes. Before she can voice it, he steps into her space, tilting his head slightly at the driver and a few bystanders. Understanding dawns in her eyes as his hands catch her waist to pull her against him as he bends toward her. Her eyes flutter closed as she comes onto her toes and tilts her up to him. Then he's captured her mouth, and though it is a calculated move, it isn't any less of a pleasure, feeling her soft curves against him as his lips move against hers.

When he pulls away, it's just far enough to press his forehead to hers. "Until tomorrow?"

"Yes," she says, her eyes still closed, a breathless tinge to her voice that he can't help but be proud of. "Tomorrow."

/

Jemma twists the strap of her purse nervously as she steps in front of Grant's building. He'd offered to send a car for her, but she'd declined. It seemed silly, she thought, to send a driver all the way to get her only to come back, when she could simply hail a cab outside the uni. Only in front of the impressive and imposing address in front of her as the car that has seen better days pulls away, sure the acrid smell of a previous passenger's cigarettes and cheap perfume has lingered on her skin, she's beginning to feel like she ought to have taken Grant up on the offer.

Still, she straightens her shoulders and marches toward the doors, trying not to white-knuckle the leather strap as she moves forward. It does not help that, as she was leaving for work this morning, her friends obnoxiously egged Daisy on even as she tucked a handful of prophylactics in Jemma's handbag with a wink. Usually a grump before his coffee, even Fitz had gotten in on the shenanigans, helpfully suggesting Daisy count once she'd come home. Despite the cold weather, she's sure it took at least three blocks before the flames in her cheeks died down.

As Jemma climbs the steps to the entry, a uniformed doorman steps out from the brightly lit interior to hold the door open for her, smiling at her. It's a reassuring smile, friendly and much less threatening than the looming building before her, and she feels some of the tension in her shoulders loosen.

"Miss Simmons!" he greets.

"How did you…?" Jemma trails off as she lets him guide her into the lobby.

"You're Mr. Ward's special guest," the doorman positively beams at her. He gestures with a spotless white glove to the elevator. "He let me know to expect you at this time. You're even prettier than your picture. If you'll follow me, I can send you up."

"My picture?" Jemma asks uncertainly.

"Mr. Ward circulated one to all us doormen," Phil says, and though she didn't think it was possible, his smile stretches even wider. "He suggested you might be a regular visitor. Thought we should know to let you up to his floor without any issues."

"Oh. That was very nice of him."

Phil guides her into the lift. He swipes a key card over a panel and presses the top floor button. "That will take you to the penthouse, and I'll call up to let Mr. Ward know you are on your way."

"Thank you, Phil," Jemma says as the doors slip shut. She sags against the wall as the lift moves, releasing her breath in a sigh of relief that it was over. She straightens as the movement slows and the intricately molded gold doors open into the entry way of what can only be a private floor.

"Jemma," Grant says warmly, and she turns to see him come around the corner. He seems to have taken her request to accommodate casual wear seriously, as his feet are bare below the cuffs of his jeans. The sleeves of his soft-looking black Henley are rolled up to display muscled forearms and his hair is wet like he's just stepped out the shower. She finds it oddly attractive.

"Hello," she says formally, her hand finding its way to the strap of her purse again.

"Won't you take your coat off, stay awhile?" There's a teasing lilt to Grant's voice.

"Yes. Of course."

She begins to unbutton her pea coat, and Grant steps behind her to take it as she eases it off her shoulders. She feels nervous, which is ridiculous, considering this is, in essence a business meeting. The business of their impending marriage. Which will be very businesslike. She should not, for example, be focusing on how close he is standing, enough that she can swear she feels the heat of him as her coat slips down her spine.

"Can I get you something to drink? A glass of wine?"

"Wine would be nice," she says. A glass to calm her nerves should be just the thing.

He hangs her coat in the closet, then guides her down the hall, into his home proper. The hall turns into a large open space and she has to brace herself to keep from dropping her jaw. She knew he was a very wealthy man – goodness knows, Bobbi had certainly made a point of saying that he was one of Those Wards in a tone that suggested that meant something – but she couldn't have dreamed of this. The ceiling is high, windows on one side stretching all the way up to give her a perfect view over the lights of New York. It's not decorated to tacky opulence, but the sleek furniture screams expensive, and that most assuredly is a fireplace surrounded by - bloody hell! – a water feature.

Grant guides her to sit on one of the sofas, which hardly look like he's ever sat on it at all. Certainly unlike the lumpy-cushioned one wedged into her living room that Daisy makes a bed of fairly regularly. As she settles, trying not to look as unsophisticated as she suddenly feels. The space would be considered large anywhere, but for New York it seems positively enormous.

She tries not to fidget as Grant moves into the kitchen, and so makes a point of trying to focus on the landscape. As such, she jumps at the sound of the cork. She hadn't heard Grant approach, and curses her nerves.

He hands her a flute before pouring his own, then sets the bottle in an ice bucket on a coffee table.

"To our partnership," he says, tapping the edge of his glass against hers before raising it to his lips. She follows suit, fighting the urge to simply drain the glass. "I hope you don't mind, but I thought we'd order in for tonight. I don't usually cook."

"Take away is fine," Jemma says, though she can't help but swallow a mouthful of what is surely champagne that costs more than she spends on groceries in a week.

"Thai food okay? I've called in an order, but I can always order something else."

"Thai's fine."

All too soon, it seems, he's sitting next to her on the sofa.

"You're nervous," he says, tipping his head pointedly at her hands twisting in her lap. "This isn't going to fly if you look frightened by me every time I approach."

"I'm sorry," Jemma says, her throat tightening. They haven't even started and already she's bollocksing it up.

"Hey," Grant says, and then a second time even more gently. "It's okay. You just need time to get used to it. And that's exactly why we're here tonight. To talk about what we need to do – and that's both of us, not just you – to make it look and feel real. Okay?"

"Okay," she says.

"Let's start here." Grant reaches into her lap, taking one of her hands as he moves a bit closer. Not close enough to feel intimidating, but slightly more than casual contact.

"Contact," she says, and some of the butterflies seem to flee her stomach. She always feels better when there's a plan in place Grant clearly has more than the beginnings of one, if the mountain of paper he pulls from a locked briefcase leaned against the couch is any indication. She doesn't know his clinical approach causes a twinge of hurt to rise in her chest, but she blinks it back. He's been very open about his intentions and the reasons behind his attentions, and her feelings are her own to manage. She pushes on. "And I should… I should probably start spending more time here, shouldn't I? Unless I can tell my friends about-"

He's already shaking his head. "No. I can't risk anything getting out. I know you probably trust your friends- "

"I do," she says emphatically.

"But I don't know them. And even the most trustworthy people can slip up, by accident," he says when it looks like she'll rush to defend them. "The fewer people that know, the better."

"So who gets to know?" She narrows her eyes at him in suspicion.

"You, me," he says as the corner of his mouth tilts in a wry almost smile. "And the lawyers who oversee the contract and NDA."

She wrinkles her nose in confusion.

"Non-disclosure agreement," he clarifies. "Once we've agreed terms, I'll have my lawyer write the final agreement. I understand if you want your own lawyer to look at it, though I do insist on vetting the firm and full confidentiality."

Jemma shakes her head. "I don't think a lawyer is in my budget."

Grant's face softens. "I'll pay the retainer. I don't want you to feel any of this is unfair or for you to feel like your interests haven't been protected. I'd offer a lawyer from the firm I use, but…"

"But they are more likely to protect your interests," Jemma says a little miserably. "But I don't want to jeopardise this… agreement … and I don't know any lawyers for this kind of thing."

Grant squeezes her hand. "Tell you what. Let's just start by going over what my lawyers have prepared. We can take it from there after that. Okay?"

"Okay," Jemma nods, leaning to read over his shoulder. "So we start with how long?"

"It needs to be two years," Grant says. "From now, not the time of the marriage, but the wedding needs to take place sooner rather than later."

"Were… were you thinking we'd date and have a quick engagement, or…"

"I was thinking dating, publicly and increasingly. Then an impulsive elopement in Vegas. It's tacky, I know," he says ruefully. "And it isn't ideal. But I have… let's say, business interests there. Believe it or not, it's actually the best way to stay under Christian's radar."

"Christian?"

"My brother." Grant doesn't explain further.

"So, going to Vegas won't raise suspicions."

"No. In fact, going to Vegas is a move Christian expects me make. If you accompany me when I go, we can make show of taking in the sights, gambling, getting caught up and hitting a chapel."

"Whirlwind romance and elopement," Jemma nods. "Though won't they expect you to seek an annulment, or…"

"We'll say we decided to try to make it work. Two crazy kids in love. You'll move have to move in here, of course. And though I'm afraid the rushed wedding is inevitable, I asked the lawyers to leave where we go on our honeymoon to you."

"Honeymoon?" Jemma blurts. "Oh, you don't need to take me on a honeymoon."

"Appearances," he reminds her.

She sighs. "We'll have to visit my family, I suppose" Jemma says. "Once we've married. I expect mum and dad won't be happy I've gone and married without them, but that can't be helped and if I don't bring come and introduce my husband…

"That can be arranged easily enough," Grant says. "We can visit them as a honeymoon, maybe tack a couple of days in Paris."

"For appearances." Jemma can't keep the wry tone from her voice, but Grant seems amused rather than annoyed. She glances over at the paperwork, flipping through. "What's this? Family obligations? You've worked in family functions? This seems long. Wouldn't it be easier just to say we do all of them?"

Grant grimaces. "Let's just says that, while they can't all be avoided, those kinds of obligations will be… limited. I do have specific public outings for after we're married outlined in the next section. Charity events where it would look odd not to bring my wife, for example."

"My work…" Jemma bolsters herself and carries on. "My work is important and sometimes I will need to work longer hours. I can be flexible, and I might not need to put in as many hours if funding is secure, but I need to be able to build flexibility in for my own work. If I'm making a breakthrough, or if trials are running long… I can't just drop things."

"That's fair," Grant says. "I can support that, both here and in public. But if you don't need to work through events, or even anything that would cast our newlywed status into doubt… I need you to make a life here. Maybe that means working from here, when you don't need a lab."

"Oh," Jemma says. "That makes sense. I can… I can do that."

"I can note here that I'll make sure to provide you with adequate work space to make it possible. Also…" Grant winces even as he makes notes on the paper. "I have cleaning staff, and if I suddenly have a guest room set up and used…"

"Oh," Jemma says. "Oh!"

"It just needs to look as though we share a bedroom," Grant moves to reassure her. "We can move your things in the bedroom, and I'll take the couch here."

"Don't be ridiculous," Jemma shakes her head. "I'm not going to boot you from your own bed. And I'm certainly more size appropriate for the couch."

"The couch is longer than I am tall," Grant counters. "And I'm not going to make you move into my home just to take the couch."

They eye each other in silence for a long moment, and Jemma sets her expression so he knows she can out stubborn him on this.

"Jemma," he sighs. "I insist. Let me be a bit of a gentleman here."

"Is it a cot?"

"What?" Grant narrows his eyes at her.

"Is your bed a tiny cot, suited to, I don't know, military camping or holding small infants?"

"No," he says slowly. "It's a perfectly adequate California king-sized bed. I'm not trying to trick you into taking the lousy sleep."

Jemma rolls her eyes. "Well then it's settled. We'll switch off."

Grant blinks. "You know I don't expect you to..."

"We're both adults," Jemma waves him off. "And I'm not going to spend two years feeling guilty that you haven't slept in a proper bed.

"Fine," Grant says. "We're two adults, we can rotate the bedroom."

"Excellent," Jemma says. "You note that right there in the agreement."

She watches until he does, a ghost of an amused smile on his lips. "What next… wait, _why is there a section on sex in our fake marriage agreement?"_

Her voice rises about three octaves over the course of a sentence.

"Breathe," Grant commands firmly, and she draws in a gasping breath. "It's nothing untoward. It's just important to make sure expectations – or lack thereof, in this case – of what each party envisions from the other are outlined."

"So no sex?"

"Not with each other and not with outside parties for the duration of the agreement," Grant confirms. "I know that it is a long time, but any perceived infidelity puts the arrangement in jeopardy."

"No sex for two years," Jemma says.

"Are you going to be able to handle that?"

"I can handle myself just fine," she retorts. He raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't back down. He can take that as he will – it's not entirely untrue. "What about you? I'm not the one in the paper with all the models. Is two years going to be a problem for you?"

"I'll handle – _manage_ ," he's laughing at her, she can tell by the twinkle in his eyes – "just fine."

"Well that's settled," she says, a bit grumpily.

They haggle over some more of the details – and goodness, this agreement is comprehensive - including how the marriage with dissolve and the previously-discussed funding for her research.

"In addition to the money for your research, we should also talk about what kind of allocation you'll want during the marriage," Grant continues. "This is the number I suggested to the lawyer."

Jemma balks at the figure before what he's said even registers. "Allocation… are you suggesting I'm looking to be paid? Like some sort of kept woman?"

Grant seems to think better of answering that right away. Jemma glares at him.

"Sort of," he concedes.

"I'm not a bloody child, in need of an allowance!"

"It's not an allowance," he cuts off her protest. "There are going to be expectations of you as my wife. In terms of wardrobe for events, in terms of spending at charities. I don't expect you to shoulder all of that."

"What do you expect me to shoulder? Because I don't see what I'm contributing at all. The financial arrangements don't have me contributing to rent, or groceries, and now not even the clothes on my back? I'm not a bloody gold-digger. I earn my way and- "

"Jemma," Grant says, and she turns to face him. When did she stand up and begin pacing? If she wasn't so upset, she'd be embarrassed, but as it is… She pops her fists onto her hips.

"Okay," Grant concedes. "I can see where you'd get the wrong impression. But believe me, you are contributing. I don't want to go into detail, at least not until the paperwork is in order, but I won't retain my job without a wife. A job that comes with a generous salary. Not to mention I have no doubt Ward Enterprise's shares would drop significantly and rapidly if my brother were to take the reins. If you don't want to talk about an amount, we need to compromise."

She gestures at him to continue.

"We'll go with a credit card, one with a limit big enough to support your buying clothes and shoes for events, or anything else you might need in the role of Ward wife. When the bill comes, we'll decide on a fair amount that I'll cover."

"That sounds acceptable, I suppose" Jemma says. Her hands drop from her hips and she runs her hands through her hair. Grant opens his mouth as if to say something, but his phone chimes.

"That will be dinner," he says.

"Which I'm paying for," Jemma says, daring him to object. "I think I can afford a little Thai food."

He lifts his hands in surrender.

"I'll have Phil send the delivery man up," he says. She's sure he's hiding a smile. She grabs her wallet out of her purse, then pauses.

"And perhaps you can find a way to dispose of this?" She tears off a condom from the strip Daisy had shoved in her purse. "I have a very real feeling my roommates will make a production of counting when I return home."

"In that case," Grant grins and reaches over to snag the whole strip out of her purse. "I've got a reputation to maintain."


	6. Chapter 6

Jemma can't sleep. She's laying on what might possibly be the world's most luxurious mattress in sheets that probably have a higher thread count than all the sheets she's ever had in her life put together, plus she's exhausted after a long day on her feet in front of students and microscopes and petri dishes.

And she _can't sleep_.

She shifts on the bed once again and sighs. She's got this whole bedroom to herself as Grant insisted she take the first rotation and stretched out on his couch for the night. This should be the easy part of the whole ruse, staying the whole night over at Grant's place, where there are no friends to correctly interpret her blushes and catch her in a lie about their relationship.

It's too comfortable. Too comfortable and too quiet. At home, her room may be roughly the size of Grant's closet, but it feels cozy, the sounds of New York filtering in even when the windows are shut tight in the colder months. If not the hum from the nightlife and traffic, there's the sounds of her roommates to lull her to sleep. Fitz and Mac's rumbling snores through the thin wall between their rooms, Fitz absurdly loud for someone so small, drowning out the much larger Mac. Bobbi coming in from a late shift, trying to be quite but inevitably stepping on the creaky part of the floor or tripping over a pair of shoes that hasn't quite made its way to their front closet. The sound television softly playing if Daisy fell asleep before turning it off or her even breathing on nights Jemma insisted her friend take the bed for Jemma to crawl in to as well when she gets home when she'd known she'd be late at the lab.

Her home is lively, has signs of life even in the wee hours of the morning, and without them, somehow, Jemma doesn't feel safe enough to shut down, unable to quiet her mind long enough for her to get some rest when she knows there is no one to coax her through if it spins toward those dark place, no friend to reassure her that she is cared for and valued. It doesn't seem to matter how soft the sheets are against the skin not covered by the borrowed t-shirt acting as a night gown, nor how amazing and decidedly not saggy this mattress is compared to her own.

And now she's thinking about her mattress, running through budgets to replace it as she should have done ages ago, turning over options when she should be turning over and going to sleep so she can be prepared for tomorrow.

She sighs again, wondering if she'd fare any better on the couch, guessing it would feel equally lonely in its own elegant way. Grant had finished going over the changes his lawyer had made to their agreement based on Jemma's additional notes, before he'd given her the full tour of the penthouse and the amenities available to her when she begins living there in earnest.

It's an extremely impressive living space, if impersonally decorated. It's near impossible to pick out any touches of Grant's, as though it is a real estate show room rather than a place he's lived in for years. She is, however, looking forward to trying out what appears to be a very excellent shower in the bathroom attached to the master bedroom. It's probably excessive to have water spray at you from so many jets, but Jemma does not give a fig. If she's going to be a bundle of stress worrying about keeping the agreement a secret, she will need whatever sort of pulsing massage sprays the glorious thing will divvy out. Perhaps she should try to see if it relaxes her enough to sleep tomorrow night, because she's certainly not getting anywhere on her own tonight. She debates getting out of bed and seeing if it would help at the moment, but she's not confident that she could do so without somehow managing to wake Grant up, and that would certainly be inconsiderate so late at night.

Or early morning, as it were, she notes as she glances at the digital clock on Grant's bedside table. The glowing red numbers seem to mock her as they broadcast the lateness of the hour. Jemma groans, flopping over to her other side and pulling the duvet over her head, praying sleep comes soon.

/

Jemma blinks blearily as her phone chirps a cheerful chorus to signal it is time to wake up. She groans aloud. Has that song always been that annoying?

She has to run back to her flat to change clothes before she heads to work, and she agreed to cover a freshman lecture first thing this morning, a favour she's regretting thoroughly at this moment. She pushes back the duvet and manages to shuffle out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, where she desperately hopes Grant's fancy kitchen includes a pot of coffee on an automatic timer. Her usual pot of tea simply won't cut it today.

As she turns the corner, rubbing her barely-open eyes, she manages to run smack-dab into Grant, who is just stumbling out, a mug in his hand. In her state, she bounces right off his torso and would have landed on her behind on the hardwood, rather painfully, she's sure, except that Grant has decent reflexes even first thing in morning. He hisses back a curse when his coffee sloshes over the hand that hasn't darted out to snag the front of her shirt – that is, his shirt she's borrowed – so he can pull her back up toward him.

She finds herself with her hands splayed across his abs – and goodness, Daisy was right, those certainly are more impressive in person than in the gossip rag images her friend had pulled up on Google – since he's dressed in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, dipped low enough she glimpses the vee carved by his hipbone and confirm that he appears to be neither a boxers or briefs man.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice rough.

She forces her gaze up with scarlet cheeks, an apology ready to drop from her tongue, but what comes out is "Bloody Nora, you look like hell!"

He looks, in fact, somewhat like she suspects she herself does. His hair is decidedly untidy despite its short length, his face is a bit wan beneath the overnight growth of stubble, and there are dark circles beneath bleary, tired eyes. And those are most certainly pillow creases across his forehead.

Grant doesn't dignify her comment with response, unless one counts the surprised grunt.

"I'm sorry," she says, finally finding that apology. "For smacking into you, burning you with your coffee, and I really, really should not have said a thing. I'm sure you don't look like hell. A little coffee and you'll be right as rain."

"No," Grant sighs. "Already saw myself in a mirror. I look like hell. Feel that way too. That couch is… less comfortable than it seems."

"Is there more…?" Jemma waves vaguely in the direction of his mug.

"It's coffee," Grant says.

"Yes," Jemma says slowly. Has lack of sleep made him daft? "I know."

His brow wrinkles, and though a man with those cheekbones shouldn't be adorable as well as attractive, in his rumpled state, the man has been ridiculously blessed by the universe, it would appear.

"You said you drink tea in the mornings, usually," Grant says, equally slowly. "I had my assistant pick up one of those fancy brewers and pick a breakfast blend. She's British too, very picky about her blends, though of course I'll have my housekeeper stock up on whatever you want, going forward. I started the machine, and I think it's just about ready, if you wanna…"

"Oh," Jemma says. "Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you. But I'm afraid tea is not going to cut it this morning."

She realises, belatedly, that they are still pressed together, his arm secure around her back, the heat of his skin bleeding through the material of her borrowed sleepwear. And her traitorous hands are itching to move lower, to trace down his stomach to see just how low the sculpting dips below his sweatpants.

Instead, she pulls them back, hoping she's got enough control that he can't read anything into her deliberately unhasty movements, and as she takes a step back out of his personal bubble, she can only hope that her cheeks are not flushing as scarlet as they feel.

"Yeah," Grant says after a brief pause she tries not to read into. "I just poured the last of it, but I'm probably going to need another, especially since half of this one is on the floor. I can get another pot started."

"Thanks," she nods, wishing she'd picked a shirt with long sleeves to wear to bed so she could twist her hands in them. She hasn't felt this bloody awkward since she was a skinny teen with spots and no social skills of which to speak. "I'll just… go into the kitchen."

She makes a gesture toward the kitchen, and Grant steps smoothly to the side so she can pass him, shaking the remnants of his coffee off his hand before wiping it on his trousers, tugging the material briefly down lower. It's an effort to keep her eyes appropriately high.

"Wait," he says before she's gotten more than a few steps. "Did you… did you not sleep well? Is there something wrong with the room? The bed? Did you need more blankets?"

"Oh no," she whirls around, hands fluttering franticly. "Your home is very lovely."

"Not what I asked," Grant tilts his head at her. "You need something stronger than tea this morning, which suggests you didn't sleep well."

Jemma sighs. "It's just… not what I'm used to, is all. It will just take some adjusting, I'm sure." She makes an effort to smile widely at him, in her usual way. But judging by his unchanging expression, it's less successful than she'd hoped.

He follows her into the kitchen, and she shifts on nervous feet as he dumps the grounds from the coffee machine, rinsing the pot before filling it with water. Her eyes dart around awkwardly, falling on the tea brewer, the basket rising and falling, before it halts above the water, chiming an alert. It's much different than fussing over the kettle on the stove and setting a timer to make sure her leaves are not over steeped.

The hiss of steam at the first drip of coffee pulls her eyes back to Grant. The steady dripping makes her feel anxious, and she is suddenly very aware of the chilled air on her legs. She tries to discreetly hitch the hem of the t-shirt downward, wishing she could flee to the shower without it feeling terribly awkward.

"I should…," she jumps, beginning to open cupboards at random to try and find a mug. "Must get home to shower after this. And change. Can't go to work in this. That would be a right sight."

She squeaks unattractively when Grant comes up behind her, turning her gently to the cupboard she realises belatedly he'd shown her last night, the rows of matching, unchipped pottery mugs staring her in the face. She is sure her face colours distastefully as she grabs the nearest one. Then it's another set of far too long silent minutes as they both hover, waiting on the watched pot to do its thing.

It's with great relief when the final drop hits the surface and she can grab the pot. She gestures at Grant first until he holds out his near empty mug so she can fill his before setting hers on the counter. She fills it to the brim before choking down a scalding gulp like she did to study for tests in uni. It's bitter on her tongue and she grimaces before swallowing more.

Grant watches her with inscrutable eyes. She ducks her head, downs the rest. And flees.

/

Jemma lets herself quietly into the apartment, though she knows the chances of avoiding a grilling from Daisy are slim to nil, especially since she's likely tucked into Jemma's bed. Even if she could to sneak in quietly to get her things, Daisy is not likely to sleep through her turning on the light to find something to wear to work. In fact, Jemma thinks even as she slips off her shoes in an extra effort to sneak by unnoticed, it's likely her only hope is that Daisy is out on assignment from her new boss.

"Oi, that you, Jem?"

Jemma jumps nearly a foot at the groggy voice from her bed, because that is decidedly not Daisy.

"Lance! What on earth are you doing in my room?"

"What's it look like, hen?"

Jemma rolls her eyes even though it's unlikely Lance can see her do so in the dark. She flicks on a small lamp, and he hisses and blinks up at her.

"I'd have expected Daisy to be using it when I didn't come home." She bristles suddenly as the thought occurs to her. "If she's downstairs sleeping in her van in this weather because you had a row with Bobbi and didn't want to go home, so help me heaven, Lance Nathaniel Hunter…"

"Naw, love, no cause for full-naming me! Well, I did have a row with Bob, but…" He shrugs and grins. It's par for the course for the two of them, really. They fight and break up and they fight and make up. It's practically foreplay for the two of them, and unfortunately less private than Jemma and her flatmates often wish for.

"Daisy?" Jemma prompts when Lance trails off.

"Oh, right. Bob didn't want her to interrogate you about boffing that Ward bloke, so she pulled her in to sleep in her room."

"Oh, that was nice of her," Jemma says. "But that doesn't really explain why you are out here, and not in the home you pay rent for."

"Well it seems Bob didn't appreciate suggestion about what the two of us could do to keep Daisy distracted from interrogating you, so she told me where too. Figured it was best to take the lumpy couch in the hopes she'd forgive me sooner. But then your room was empty, so…"

"So you made a crude joke about a threesome," Jemma sighs. "And Bobbi put you in your place. Then you decided to crash here because you were too lazy to take the tube home."

"Hey, now, love, it wasn't crude. A thing of beauty, really, what I suggested we could get up too. Oh well. Their loss," he says. "Anyway, now I get to interrogate you about boffing the Ward dude. Daisy said something about counting the rubbers in your purse?"

Jemma is sorely tempted to throw said purse at him. He waggles his eyebrows comically at her, though, and she can't help the laugh that bubbles out of her instead.

"So, this Ward bloke? Good shag, then? Know where all the knobs and buttons are?"

"I'm beginning to wonder why Bobbi sleeps with you, let alone puts up with you."

"It's because I know where all her knobs and buttons- Hey!"

The last comes out muffled as Jemma slaps her hand over his mouth. She pulls it away before he can lick her – she's been caught by that one before and won't be caught again – but her point is made.

"Right, right," he grumps affectionately. "You never tell us the fun details."

"And that's not going to change," Jemma says firmly, glad that she's set precedence of privacy over her bedroom antics. She's much less likely to get caught in a lie since her friends are used to teasing and grilling her without any real expectations of details. She might actually be able to pull this off.

"Right, then," Lance says. "Well if you won't be a love and tell me about the sex you're having, how about you make us a proper cuppa and I tell you all about the sex I'm not having? No?"

Jemma just shakes her head. "How about I make you a proper tea and you go home?"

"Fine," Lance says, leaning back in the bed triumphantly. He'd probably just wanted to have a cup of tea all along and was too lazy to make it, Jemma realises. Smarter bloke than he pretends to be, she smiles fondly as she makes her way to fill the kettle.

/

Jemma sticks out her lower lip and tries to blow a stray strand of hair from in front of her goggles. It falls back to where it was before. She flexes her wrist to bare a bit of skin between her neoprene gloves and her lab coat, using it to scrub the lock to the side as best you can.

"You should take a break, Simmons."

Jemma straightens, her back twinging and protesting the quick movement. She has been bent over the petri dishes awhile.

The director is standing in the doorway, looking at her with an expression she can't quite place. It's a frown, and yet he doesn't quite look unhappy with her.

"Oh, I'm fine, Director Blake," she waves. "Just wanted to finish injecting these …"

"It wasn't a suggestion," he says. "Finish up, or call a student to take care of this –" he waves vaguely over her research as though it is inconsequential– " then meet me in my office. I expect you there in fifteen minutes."

Jemma barely refrains from huffing in annoyance, simply presses her lips together and nods. She's fortunately far enough along that she can quickly finish the last of her protocols, and though she would have preferred to go over her notes, it won't hurt the experiment any if she's not here to observe, thankfully.

She gently gives instructions to her lab assistants and walks as fast as her legs will carry her to from the lab building to the campus building in which the Director has taken an office. She wishes she had had time to stop in the loo to check to make sure she's presentable, but all the time she was afforded allowed her only to smooth her hair in the shadowed reflection of a picture frame in the Director's waiting room and hope for the best when it came to what she was wearing.

The Director keeps her waiting anyway, and she grits her teeth against frustration. She's once again left her work at his beck and call, to be left wedge uncomfortably in the hard chairs outside his office, ignored by his disinterested assistant, with no reading material beyond the self-congratulatory university magazines he's seen fit to stock and the cheesy inspirational quote posters he seems to think will make him seem less cold to the students.

They really, really don't.

She straightens her spine and wishes that she hadn't thought better of getting a fifth cup of coffee. Her stomach will likely thank her, and perhaps it will mean she can fall asleep at Grant's home tonight with less difficulty, but she could really use the fortitude right about now. She's exhausted and not really up for a discussion with her boss' boss.

"Ms. Simmons," the Director's voice cuts smoothly through her contemplation. She grits her teeth against correcting her title and lifts her lips in what she hopes is some approximation of a serene smile as she stands.

There is no one coming from his office. She closes her eyes and pushes down the surge of rage that he'd kept her waiting, from the looks of it, while he finished his Sudoku.

"Do sit, Ms. Simmons," he gestures at the chair in front of his desk, which thankfully looks more comfortable than the wooden ones out front.

"Dr. Simmons," she says before she can bite it back, as she gingerly lowers herself into the chair.

"Yes, yes," he waves dismissively. She smiles tightly, counting silently to ten in her head, then again when she still wishes she could strike the smug look from his face.

Drat. She usually has more control.

"Simmons, I've received some … interesting paperwork," Director Blake begins.

She blinks at him, confused.

"From one Grant Ward," he carries on, and she starts, fortunate in that he's looking at the stack of paper on his desk rather than her, since she doesn't have a poker face of which to speak. She had her tiredness to thank for the genuine bewilderment he'll read on her face.

"Is… Is that a bad thing?" She wrinkles her brow. Her surprise isn't unfeigned either. Grant hadn't mentioned that he would be contacting the university any time soon. In fact, she had expected he'd have waited a little longer into their … relationship. For lack of a better word.

"No," Director Blake says, looking up at her now, his eyes boring holes into hers. She resists the urge to squirm. She's not a recalcitrant child, sent to the Headmaster's office. She shan't behave as such.

She lifts her chin and blinks at him, waits out his silence.

"No," he says finally, grudgingly. "No, he has renewed the annual donation. And there's additional funding."

"Well, that's lovely… Isn't it?"

"Funding specific to _your_ research. Research that hasn't been of any interest to Ward Enterprises in the all the years the company has been a major donor. And that I would hazard a guess still isn't, since what I hear from a few little birds is that what he _has_ shown interest in, is one researcher in particular. That is _you,_ Ms. Simmons."

The use of that particular title feels deliberate, an insult. Like he's baiting her.

Jemma holds her breath a moment to gather herself, refuses to rise to it.

"And if he is," she says evenly. "Then I don't see how it is any of your business."

"It's my business so long as it is _my_ university funding in jeopardy."

"Which it clearly isn't," Jemma lifts her chin. "As you yourself said, the annual funding is in place. And if Gra – Mr. Ward wishes to give additional funding toward research, that can only continue to benefit _your_ university, I don't see how my personal life has any bearing on it."

"You had better see it doesn't," Director Blake says, the threat in his voice clear. She swallows but doesn't lower her chin. "Yes. You had better see that it doesn't."


	7. Chapter 7

Grant resists the urge to groan aloud as he presses his fingers to his temples, willing away the headache that has dogged him all day. It doesn't help, nor does the fact that he's running on so little sleep he doesn't think it can even count as a nap, thanks to his deceptively-comfortable looking couch. He hasn't ached this much since those first few weeks of military school, before his body became used to the paces the cadets were put through on the regular. Unfortunately, the unrelenting, stiff torture device that dares to present itself as a sofa isn't something he can strengthen himself to conquer.

Once everything is in place and he and Jemma are officially married, he's going to completely refurnish the room. They can say she hated the way it looked, or that they wanted something that was theirs. Whatever. He doesn't care. So long as neither of them is forced to sleep on it longer than necessary.

Maybe he'll take it somewhere and set in on fire. He'll have Margaret look into whether it can be done.

Until then, it will stay a bit of a dilemma. Because as much as he'd love to trade out the couch for a turn on his excellent mattress as per the schedule he and Jemma had worked out, he can't let her sleep on that godawful thing. She's the one doing him the favour, payment or not, and he hasn't forgotten that.

A knock on the door frame breaks him from his thoughts, and he's not surprised to see Margaret. While she usually uses the intercom feature on the phone for visitors, she doesn't waste time with the formality when she's on her own.

"Come in," he gestures, careful to keep his impatience with the day as a whole out of his voice.

"The Detourneau files you wanted," she passes them to him, "and a red eye from the shop down the block, to get you through the last of the afternoon."

"Thank you, Margaret," he says, taking the paper cup from her hand.

Margaret is worth double her weight in gold. He's one hundred percent certain that his father would never have been able to drive the company into near bankruptcy if he had had enough sense to see that Margaret Carter could be far more valuable to the company in a role beyond head of the secretarial pool before he had his fatal heart attack.

The state of things made it easier to slip it from Christian's hands, of course, but it was barely salvageable by the time Grant was made CEO. A lot of former employees saw the brunt of the effects of Jerry Ward's reign, and Grant would bet good money a lot of families wouldn't have suffered if Margaret had been keeping the previous CEO in check.

Fortunately, Grant isn't nearly as myopic. Her title might be Executive Assistant, but she's his right-hand and essentially his senior advisor. He trusts her more than he does anyone else in the company. More than anyone else in general.

"Did you need me to move your four o'clock? Perhaps fit you in with your doctor? You are due for a flu shot in the next couple of weeks."

"No." Grant frowns. He didn't think he looked _that_ bad. He's run longer on less sleep before. Hasn't needed to in a few years, but age can't have caught up to him that quickly. He's thirty-five, not seventy-five. "It's not the flu, I'm just tired."

"Tired?"

Tired enough not to think before he opened his big mouth. This whole thing works only when everyone buys the whirlwind romance schtick, and that includes his executive assistant.

"Late night," he amends. "I'm seeing someone. She…it was a late night."

"Congratulations," Margaret says dryly. "Shall I make the usual arrangements with the florist?"

"Yes," Grant says. "Wait. No."

"No?"

"Arrangements with the florist, yes. But not the usual ones. Not roses."

"No…roses?"

Grant shrugs a little. "They're done by every guy who doesn't want to spare five minutes. Hell, I've been that guy."

"But you're not that guy today?"

"No," Grant says, letting a wisp of a smile cross his lips. "Not today. Roses say unoriginal at best, and uninterested at worst."

Margaret, ever the professional, doesn't let so much of a hint of surprise cross her face, but simply nods sharply, then tilts her head at him. "And?"

"And what?"

"What _do_ you want the flowers to say?"

He purses his lips and nods slowly, thoughtfully, even as he turns over the possibilities in his mind. It's not as much about what he wants the flowers to say to Jemma so much as what he needs anyone watching to read into them. He taps his pen on the block of post-it notes before making writing three short points in his deliberate scrawl before pushing it toward Margaret.

"Can you find a florist who can work with this? Right," he smiles at her slightly offended expression. "Of course you can."

Margaret plucks the post-it from the pad, her eyebrows raising in slight surprise as she glances at what he's written.

"And the card?"

"Have them write, "Play is the highest form of research." he says.

"Einstein?" Margaret is trying not to sound incredulous.

"This one is...different. She's smart."

"And likes to play?"

"That," he says, his mouth curving into a slow smirk, "would be telling."

She opens her mouth but seems to think better of saying anything, turning on her heel and walking in that determined step he knows means she'll have it sorted before the hour's out. He slides the files she's left behind in front of him to begin flipping through, his focus back on his next meeting and his next problem.

/

"Holy crap," Daisy says as she opens the door for Jemma at her knock – or at least what passes for one. With her bags on one arms and the bouquet in the other, she'd had to resort to kind of kicking at it blindly and hoping one of her flatmates was at home. "Of all the days to have a whim to pick up fresh flowers…"

"Oh, I didn't pick these up," Jemma blushes as she lets Daisy pull the box that surrounds the vase away with a rustle of plastic, so she can wearily toe her shoes off and slip into her house shoes on. She lowers her book bag to the floor and nudges it out of the way before holding her arms out for her flowers again. "Grant sent them to me at work, but they'd get so little light in the shared office, and I thought we might enjoy having some here."

"Yeah," Daisy says, handing them back and then following behind Jemma as she rounds the corner to the kitchen and dining area, stopping on the spot. "Only he didn't just send them to you at work."

"Oh my," Jemma breathes. The centre of their small dining table is already adorned with a bouquet just as large as the one she hauled home with her, complete with matching vase.

"I know, right?" Daisy says, nudging Jemma until she moves forward and sets the bouquet down next to the first. "Dude is _way_ into you. You must have seriously rocked his world. Shook him all night long, if the bags under your eyes are any indication."

"Do I look awful?" Jemma exclaims, alarmed, moving to dig through her purse, hauling out her keys, a receipt and two pens, one of which she drops to the floor while trying to put them back in, then drags out a compact. Daisy smacks it back into her purse, shaking her head, before picking the pen Jemma dropped.

"You look fine," Daisy says. "Stop worrying. You just look tired."

"I am tired," Jemma sets her purse on the kitchen chair, moving to pull the plastic off her second set of flowers. "I didn't get much sleep last night – and no, I'm not going to go into details for you any more than Lance, so don't bother."

"Fine," Daisy says. "Not like I need to ask anyway. You were out all night. Not like you slept on the couch."

"No. No, I certainly did not," Jemma says, to herself mainly. It comes out unintended, but serves to cement the impression Daisy had anyway.

"Nice."

Jemma fusses with the cardboard box, trying to flatten it to fit in the recycling while Daisy wags her eyebrows comically.

"Seriously, Jem," she says when she finally gets a laugh from her friend. "What's with the mega flowers? Does he like to do something weird? Oh my GAWD, please tell me he likes something weird like to dress up like a Stormtrooper, because that would make my night."

"Good _lord_ , Daisy, where are you getting these ideas? He's not exactly a poor man. No one dressed as any cartoon characters –"

"Movie character, that one's Star Wars, babe."

"You know I'm more of a Star Trek fan," Jemma says. "Anyway, no one dressed up as anything. I'm sure he just wanted to send me flowers, and perhaps he thinks I expect something numerous or large given his… status."

"Dude. Jem. It's not the number of arrangements or even the size. It's what's in them."

"I don't…" Jemma shakes her head, wrinkling her forehead. "I don't track where you're going with this."

"The flowers," Daisy says. "They have a message."

"Well, yes, I saw the card… wait, did you open it?"

"No, but given how red your cheeks are going right now, I kinda want to. But no, apparently there's like a whole secret code language for flowers. Like how people send roses for Valentine's day because they mean love or whatever."

"You know this how?"

"I was researching spy stuff, for the new job, and got into a Wiki hole a while back, and it was kind of interesting. The irises – I like the choice of white, by the way – reminded me. It's like the tell, that there's a message. From there, I did some poking on the internet."

"Daisy, I do think you're reading far too much into this."

"Maybe," Daisy's lips quirk into a smirk as she replies. "But then it's an extreme coincidence that these speak so well together. Seriously, we have the gardenia – which smells amazing, means "sweetness" or "secret love". And then there's these button-looking things in the pink and white – runcola or something."

"Ranunculi," Jemma provides helpfully.

"Thank you, yes," Daisy says, " _ranunculi,_ which mean that you are radiant with charm. So you're sweet and radiant and charming, which, obviously. The lavender shade of roses means that he's enchanted by you or love at first sight – do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Yes, I see, since you're bloody explaining as you go. Not exactly difficult to follow." Jemma rolls her eyes fondly.

"Also, hey," Daisy ignores her, "they're called 'grey knights' so I'm going to read that as him wanting to be your white knight, only not as boring or whatever."

"Yes, I'm sure the Victorians sent that message."

"Okay, yeah, I'm stretching it there," Daisy admits. "But I've saved the best two for last, because those goblet-looking white ones are arum lilies and mean ardor, and these ones are sweet peas, for delicate pleasure and bliss. Those two basically scream, 'thank you for the good time', if you know what I mean."

"I'm sure I don't." Jemma bites her lip and refuses to look Daisy in the eye or say anything further. She can't afford to get caught in a lie, and she's quickly figuring out the best way to avoid that with her nosy friends seems to be to avoid answering their questions and let them draw their own conclusions. It certainly helps that her friends have dirty, filthy minds and do all the work on their own.

She shakes her head to herself, letting Daisy push her into the living room and cajole her into having popcorn for dinner, confident she won't spoil a plan before it's even started if she lets her friend chatter away.

/

"Dr. Simmons!"

Phil's cheerful voice breaks through Jemma's musings, as she ceases her purposeful stride in front of Grant's building, hoisting her grocery bag higher onto her hip only to huff when her small duffle starts to slip down her arm.

"Oh, please call me Jemma," she says, holding back a groan when her bag slides to the crook of her elbow despite her bests efforts. "I feel very much like I'm still at work otherwise."

"Very well… Ms. ..Jemma," Phil beams, taking the paper bag from her. She shoots him a 'thanks', hoisting her bag back up. "I hope this means you won't be getting another late cab home."

"Oh, it's perfectly safe, I'm sure," Jemma says. She'd been thankful for the excuse of Grant's meetings with shareholders across the globe at ungodly hours of the morning, because it meant the last two nights she's gotten a goodnight's sleep at home. That excuse won't fly tonight, so she's packed enough clothing and melatonin to hopefully to see her through the weekend.

"I'm here to meet Grant," Jemma says after a beat of silence. "Only he texted to say his meetings ran late and I don't think he's arrived home yet."

"No, he hasn't," Phil says, and Jemma nods.

"Alright, then… do you have a coffee shop you'd recommend nearby, where I can wait? Or perhaps I can just stay in the lobby?"

"That won't be necessary," Phil's ever present smile only grows wider. "Mr. Ward said to send you up, and he's left you a key."

"A key?" Jemma says, stupidly.

"So you can let yourself in," Phil smiles at her kindly.

"Oh," Jemma says, trying not to let the relief show on her face that they haven't reached the key swapping place in their pretend romance yet. Though, she thinks as her heart begins to pound a little in her ears, she and Grant should probably discuss those kind of milestones and timelines.

Oh god. She realises that she's going to have to bring him to meet her roommates at some point. While it certainly makes sense to spend more time at his place, given his lack of other people in his space, she can't avoid it forever, not if they are going to buy the infatuated bit.

"Jemma?" Phil is beginning to look at her in concern.

"Sorry," she smiles weakly. "Just a little lost in thought. Can I?" she gestures and Phil holds out her bag, then hesitates.

"Are you sure you can manage?"

"Oh yes," she says. "It's not heavy, just a few things. I thought I could make Grant dinner, but I wasn't sure he'd be stocked on what I need, since-"

"Since he usually orders in, and when he doesn't, it's because he's eating out?"

"Yes, I suppose you'd be quite familiar with that. Anyway, while I'm not exactly the calibre of cook you'd find at Per se, _per se_ " Jemma giggles a little at her joke, "I competent enough."

"I'm sure Mr. Ward will appreciate it, having someone take care of him for a change," Phil is smiling at her widely. "I'm not sure I've seen any evidence of home-cooked meal since he moved in."

"Well," Jemma ducks her head, her heart twinging a little at the thought. "I hope he likes lemon chicken piccata, anyway."

"I'm sure he will," Phil smiles, holding open the door for her, then swiping his card to send her to the loft before resuming his place at the door.

/

Grant is annoyed by the time he makes his way up the elevator. It's been an extremely long day, starting in the wee hours because of a series of overseas calls, followed by an emergency meeting that ran late because of a shipment issue that has Christian's signature sabotage all over it. He'd managed to get things sorted out and the company won't see a dent in the profits over this, thankfully, but he's been on the go for 18 hours straight, and he's feeling it.

There are positive outcomes, he reminds himself even as the chime sounds to let him know it is time to stop slumping against walls of the elevator. There was no long-term impact to the company. He's tired enough that sleeping on the couch probably won't pose much of a problem. And when he texted Jemma to apologize again for running late and ask if she wouldn't mind ordering dinner, she'd sent a return text to say she'd already taken care of it, complete with a smiley face emoji. It's cute, and it's nice to come home to one less thing to have to worry about.

He unlocks and opens the door, hearing the strains of music from the direction of the kitchen, a bluesy, slow song. He stops just outside where he would be visible through the entry, trying to make out if the melancholy tune is one he recognizes. It's not, nor is the voice. What is familiar, however, is the voice singing along softly, less polished but pretty in its sweetness, dropping into a hum every now and again when the words fail her.

It also smells incredible. Like butter and garlic, and a hint of something citrus. He thought he knew all the best places that delivered to his neighbourhood, but clearly Jemma has an in somewhere he doesn't know about. Thank God. He's starving. Margaret had offered to send Valerie out to grab him something no less than three times, but he'd been too focused to even think of eating until it was all over.

He walks in, leans against the doorframe, and gives a small wave when Jemma looks over. (

"Hello," he says and smiles.

"Hi," says Jemma, smiling slightly before looking back to the pot she's stirring.

"Not takeout."

"Nope." She lifts the big wooden spoon. "Something different."

He makes his way to the cupboard to pull a glass from the cupboard, before hesitating, his hand hovering between two sets of stemware.

"Should I open a bottle of white, or red?" he asks.

"Oh," Jemma says. "There's an open white in the fridge, if you like. I brought it for the sauce. If it isn't to your taste, of course, you don't have to drink it. But you can. If you want."

"I'm sure it's fine," Grant turns his head to hide his smile at her rambling, wrapping his fingers around the stem of two glasses. He sets them on the counter, then makes his way to the fridge. She glances up at that, and he notices that she has a smear of sauce on the side of her face that was cast in shadow. "You've got…"

He gestures to his cheek as he pulls out the open bottle of white and pours it into the glasses.

"Oh," she says, rubbing and it with the back of her hand and missing it completely.

"Here," he says, stepping up and handing her a glass with one hand, smoothing his thumb to wipe it away with the other. Her skin is soft and warm. He clears his throat lightly and steps slightly back as she ducks her head, moves a strand of hair behind her ear, before looking up at him beneath her lashes. He opens his mouth and closes it again, not sure of what he wanted to say or what came over him.

The timer on the stove beeps insistently.

"That'll will be the noodles," she turns abruptly back to the stove, busying herself with the pot.

"I'll just," he waves toward the dining room, grabbing his own glass and making his way to the table. He definitely doesn't flee. Definitely.


End file.
